


Callahan: A Gothic Tale

by MelanijaParadis



Series: The Triquetra Four [2]
Category: Charmed (TV 2018)
Genre: Age Before Beauty, Alternate Universe - Australia, Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - College/University, Angst and Romance, Blue apples and other easter eggs, Breaking the Third Wall, Charity's muting hex, F/M, Gothic, Love, Magical Science, Pregnancy, Sexual Metaphors, Time Travel, Whumptober 2020, daphne du maurier - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-04
Updated: 2020-11-17
Packaged: 2021-03-08 00:41:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 40
Words: 70,200
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26816779
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MelanijaParadis/pseuds/MelanijaParadis
Summary: To escape Scythe, harbinger of pestilence, Macy must flee Vera Manor under cover of darkness with Harry, who transports themselves back in time to a college founded by his dead ex-lover, year 1994.  Despite Harry's reluctance, Macy begins working for Charity's manipulative mother. This is juxtaposed with flashbacks, including when Marisol reunites with Dexter over NYE, the night Maggie is born, along with Marisol  first meeting Dexter in Australia in 1988 during a holistic remedies conference.
Relationships: Dexter Vaughn/Marisol Vera, Harry Greenwood & Macy Vaughn, Harry Greenwood/Macy Vaughn
Series: The Triquetra Four [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1952074
Comments: 20
Kudos: 16





	1. A Tearful Farewell

1 A Tearful Farewell

_Autumn 1994_

Splatters of bleak autumn drizzle dotted the cubic ‘70’s-style opaque windows’ exterior, the glassy slivers between each square piece offering a somber, unobstructed view of the sodden campus grounds near which she found herself situated. She noticed, not for the first time that week, a small cluster of crows, cawing to no end, and could swear that one of them was staring straight at her—

“Mace?”

She turned away from the pixel-like window frame to face the man who had orchestrated her escape, bringing her nearly two and a half decades earlier to do so. She knew, deep down, she ought to be grateful—thanking him, even, for rescuing her, steampunk-style, from near-certain death from silent, unwavering pestilence. But she was simmering with rage and frustration all the same, not to mention sorrow at having left her sisters behind at Vera Manor to see things through. Anger at her own body for betraying her before she could even form a single memory. Blaming herself, at those odd moments of the early morning before the sun rose, wondering if she would ever see her siblings again, as she stared up at the ceiling tiles—cork, cellulose, gypsum composite—for what felt like the hundredth time in just as many days. She understood what they told her—it wasn’t her fault, it was for her own safety, and she had to escape—

_Scythe._

Even uttering the word in her mind made her shiver. A heretofore unstoppable force that struck during the unearthly witching hour at arbitrary days of the autumn/winter season, targeting the most vulnerable of magical beings, forcing countless to enter into hiding—or die. Closing her eyes for the briefest of seconds, she imagined herself fireside, New England Journal of Medicine articles scattered across the nearby coffee table, sipping hot spiked apple cider with Maggie and Mel, Paganini’s Violin Concerto 1 playing at low volume from the sunroom, where Harry would recline in his favorite armchair to read the newspaper.

Instead, she had found herself waiting out the first half of her mandatory two weeks of quarantine staring at the soaked campus grounds, people watching and catching up on whatever scientific literature she managed to bring with her, both online and otherwise. Granted, they were in a hardwood converted apartment with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, with a partitioned area for the bed, with a tiny kitchenette and a bathroom with a single shower. But it still wasn’t home.

Maggie managed to smuggle her a hygge potion that she had sprinkled sometime before, akin to ambient potpourri, causing the airy room to smell of vanilla and cedar. It wasn’t enough though. She willed away tears, knowing her newfound family had sacrificed her presence to save her for a second time, even if it meant a different chronological period and place. To travel home was impossible, at least until Spring. If that.

She felt a tap on her shoulder and turned around. “Mace, are you ok?”

Macy rebuffed his touch and went to make herself a cup of coffee, the second one that morning. “Is that even a question?”

_Autumn Evening, 1 Week Before, Present Day, Vera Manor_

_I regret to inform you…_

They had received advance notice through their adventures and misadventures of mysterious deaths in the magical community as of late. A satyr down for the count, a faun paralyzed in place, his breath no more. Soon, the pestilence had migrated to the human factions, targeting enough local crystal shop owners, causing sufficient mortality to generate an in-depth health department investigation splashed across local, then national, news.

HIs grim countenance greeted her as she returned from the Command Center, jubilant at having discovered mystical elements of recombinant DNA; he had led her into the living room where her two younger sisters sat, their visages tear-stained.

“W-what’s wrong? Who died?” She recalled herself asking in the moment. They shook their heads, unable to speak, for fear voicing it aloud would make it so.

“Macy, we need to run away.”

Her brow furrowed as she gave him a quizzical look. _Say what? And who’s ‘we’?_

“Mace,” he swallowed hard and continued. “Your medical history of having been born “still” puts you at great risk of death by the harbinger of pestilence, Scythe.”

“But—we can fight him off!” Macy began. “And Knansie brought me back!”

Harry shook his head. “It doesn’t matter, not to Scythe. There’s no antidote, no potion, no cure at present. If he knocks on the door at 4 am and you’re here, _you will die_ ,” as her eyes began to well up.

She shook her head. “No. No, Harry—I can’t lose my family again—”

“I’m afraid we have no choice.” He held a letter with a dark-emblazoned “S” seal and a pair of skulls. _I regret to inform you…_ the header started as Macy visibly recoiled. “He’s coming soon.”

_Autumn, 3 am, Next Morning, 1 Week Before, Present Day, Vera Manor_

Packing her bags always meant leaving a place she loved, going to a place she despised. This she understood to be true her entire life, until arriving at Vera Manor and finding herself among family once more. Her telekinesis was slightly off-aim, her gene therapy magazines, laptop, and Heaven’s Vice DVDs crashing into each other, falling haphazardly into the awaiting suitcases. She stuffed as many bundles of clean clothes into her duffel bag as she could, not to mention magical purses and potions Maggie had smuggled from the Command Center’s aged wood cupboard earlier that evening.

Harry had explained that for her to remain safe, they had to transcend time and space, but for her own safety, could not tell her more until they arrived. She thrived on routine and control of her environment, and now, she had neither. In the meantime, their mutually agreed-upon plan was to lay low, buying enough time for Macy to build an antidote while avoiding Scythe’s crosshairs.

_Autumn, 3:50 am, Next Morning, 1 Week Before, Present Day, Vera Manor_

A knock at the door was all it took for Harry and Macy to flee, taking their carefully-packed-to-the-gills bags with them to the bottom of the Vera Manor stairwell, where they gave Maggie and Mel one last hug, tears streaming down their cheeks.

_A second knock, more insistent this time._

“Now!” Bags in hand, Harry grabbed Macy’s arm, holding her back as she screamed for her siblings. “Mace,” he shakily whispered in her ear, beneath her curls. “Please, love, we need to run. It’s our only hope. Please don’t make this any harder than it is—" She took a deep breath and nodded, wiping away her tears with the delicate pad of her finger. _Good girl,_ he thought to himself, terrified but nevertheless resolute as he took hold of her and their belongings, orbing away into the darkness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story is based on a dream I had of falling asleep in a campus library. It's a weird story, but hey, these are weird times...


	2. The Darkened Corridor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The pair land in a darkened corridor, and Macy has no idea "when" or "where" they are. Harry asks a precocious child for directions.

2 The Darkened Corridor

_Autumn 1994, Darkened Corridor_

The pair landed—or tumbled, more like—onto the side of an architecturally-sound locale, a small office-style nondescript mat breaking their fall. Shoving their luggage to the side of the elongated place as to avoid sticking out like a sore thumb, Macy paused to gather her breath, surveying her surroundings. They appeared to be in a darkened hallway of some sort, the unseen doorways’ indented entryways beckoning forth in a pillowy dusk, the high-ceilinged, austere corridor ensconced in murky shadows, from indigo to shades of deep Prussian blue and cobalt, giving way to milder cerulean and sapphire tones, punctuated by a veritable river stream of pale teal-toned light reflective upon the floor up ahead. Hallways this large were uncommon, save for institutions of higher education.

“H-Harry,” Macy asked softly, touching Harry’s shoulder. “Where…and _when_ …are we?” She peered down the hall, hoping for a placard to decipher, but saw none. “I-is this Hilltowne?”

Touching the wall, Harry studied its rendering, taking heed of its resolute pillared leanings indicative of pre-war elegance. The lighting suggested plate glass windows of a particular shape, reinforced with concrete and stone on its exterior, the flooring marble by the look of it.

He shook his head slowly. “No, Macy. We’re not in Hilltowne.”

_A few minutes later, Autumn 1994, Darkened Corridor_

Macy’s shoulders tensed. _Someone was rounding the corner._ But in the next breath, she relaxed, seeing as it was only a girl, no older than seven years of age, dressed to the nines in a Jessica McClintock laced white dress, long ribbon sash tied in the back, her raven hair in a tight bun. She frowned as Harry approached the youngster— _Harry, get back—what are you doing?_ Macy thought, then remembered that she no longer harbored the Source, nor its associated mind-reading abilities. _We’re done for._

He bent his knees so his eyes met the girl’s; the one lesson he recalled since raising Carter those many decades ago was that children appreciated being taken seriously, eye contact and all. _None of that cheek-pinching nonsense._ “Hullo,” he said to the girl.

The raven-haired child surveyed the gentleman with the funny accent and the lovely woman behind him, whose skin tone vaguely resembled her own. The man looked awfully young to be a piano competition judge, though everyone seemed quite a bit older than her at this juncture of her life. She studied the pair closely. “Are you lost, sir?”

Macy changed her opinion as watched the two interact, noticing at once just how pristine the girl’s outfit was; there were no faded pink fruit punch spills that marred the starched fabric (highly uncommon, due to memories of her own childhood), nor was there a single bobby pin out of place in that hairdo of hers. She imagined this child took herself quite seriously, much as she had at her age, thanks to her disciplinarian father. _Dexter._

“You might say that,” Harry remarked, peering back up at Macy, who now motioned back. _Ask her._ “What year is it?”

The girl gave a detailed response, in quick succession, “1994, collegiate piano competition—” as Macy gasped, her eyes welling with tears. _They travelled back by two and a half decades? What the absolute—how was she ever going to see her sisters again?_

Harry did his best to appear calm and collected, hearing Macy’s horrified gasp behind him; he didn’t wish to alarm the youngster, after all. “Aren’t you a bit…” he searched for the word, “…young, to be in a collegiate competition?”

The girl giggled and shook her head. “It’s for all ages. Even if I’m the youngest competitor this year. And _besides,_ ” she regarded Harry closely, coiffed chestnut hair and all, not a touch of silver to be seen. “Aren’t _you_ kinda young to be a judge?”

Harry couldn’t help but chuckle; this child certainly had a wry sense of humor, no doubt about it. “Point taken, miss.” He stood up straight, massaging his back with both of his hands; his musculature, though pronounced as always, wasn’t quite the same as it was back in the 1940s. And where had _he_ been when he was her age? If he recalled correctly, throwing rocks with the rest of the neighborhood hoodlums at large plate-glass Victorian Manor windows. _How shameful_. He’d been a _most_ naughty child.

He returned to his agenda, recalling Macy’s unspoken words. “Is there a place for us,” gesturing to himself and Macy, “to hide?” Harry’s kind eyes beseeched the child. “To read, write stories, fall asleep, even?” Fully expecting the girl to shake her head sadly, Macy was surprised when the girl nodded, taking Harry’s hand and leading him down the rest of the darkened corridor as she trailed behind, turning to one of many shadowed entryways. The girl continued down a couple of feet or so, stopping at the door of what appeared to be, on its face, a practice room, judging by the number of music stands piled nearby, several of which Harry tripped over in his haste.

_Autumn 1994, Darkened Corridor, Indented Entryway_

The girl winced upon hearing the metallic clatter. “Sorry about that, I should’ve warned you. The others—they line ‘em up everywhere—waiting for someone to trip—like banana peels—”

“Say no more,” Harry replied hastily, massaging his kneecaps as Macy bit back a laugh. Despite her initial misgivings, she found she still retained a certain appreciation for slapstick humor. _Especially when it involved Harry._

The door was locked, but the girl remained unconcerned as Harry and Macy began examining its joints and strictures. “I like writing stories and music too,” she said softly after awhile, making as if to leave, likely to her next competition round.

“Wait!” Macy called out, as the girl froze in her tracks. “What’s your name?”

Without turning around, the girl responded in an impish half-smile, “Melanija Paradis," before rounding the corner and disappearing entirely.

_Autumn 1994, Darkened Corridor, Indented Entryway to Door_

Harry and Macy stared after the departing figure. “W-was that?” Macy’s eyes widened as Harry nodded.

“Our future storyteller,” he paused for emphasis. “As a youngster,” he added a moment later as he continued to study the keyhole and doorknob for signs of errant magic—curses, hexes, and the like. He didn’t know whether there was any rule against bringing Macy to this particular location—assuming it _was_ the one he was thinking of, that had haunted him from decades ago in the deepest dregs of his mind. Finding none, he invited Macy to do her own private examination of its features. _Just to be sure._ “She does seem a bit overscheduled, no?” Harry voiced his concern aloud as Macy shook her head.

“It’s typical for American kids labelled as gifted—” she stared at the peculiarly smooth, unblemished brass features, wondering whether their presence in a hidden corridor wasn’t a grand hallucination after all. Perhaps she would wake up bathed in the bright buttery autumn warmth of her Vera Manor bedroom minutes later, well-rested, motivated, and ready to start yet another adventure at the underground Command Center in the heart of downtown Seattle.

She imagined herself, for a second, tiptoeing out of her bedroom, traversing the creaking staircase to the spacious kitchen to fix herself a cup of piping-hot hazelnut coffee, maybe even tasting a bite of Harry’s crisp, fresh-from-the-oven bacon-faux cheddar breakfast sandwich he’d made especially for her, taking into account her dairy allergy as he always did.

_Even the simplest things brought her such joy._

Making small talk with the chef, kissing him from behind as he warned her of the possible impropriety with a mischievous twinkle in his eye as she would ignore his protestations, planting her lips once more and yet again, upon the crook of his neck as he would shift himself closer, turning around to embrace her curvaceous form, the bright canary glow of early morning alighting upon her mahogany curls as to create a sparkling haloed silhouette of his beloved.

 _May this moment never end_ , she recalled him thinking as they tenderly embraced, lost in their own little world.

_And yet, it had._

She pinched herself and sighed, completing the last of her checks for hexes and similar. “I would know,” she continued from her earlier conversation. “Dexter did the same, gave me singing lessons from an early age, plus competitions to keep me sharp.”

Harry glanced at her fingers, admiring her swift, silent work. “And did it? Keep you sharp, I mean?” he asked.

“I’d like to think so, seeing as I ended up being a geneticist—or was one in a previous life anyways,” Macy laughed ruefully.

“Huh. Back when _I_ was a kid—” he felt Macy’s eyes boring through him, even in the shadows. “I mean, when _Jimmy_ was a kid, I recalled him hurling rocks and breaking windows out of boredom—”

“Times were different—”

“Quite—”

“— _You juvenile delinquent_.” Harry hid a grin; he could sense Macy returning to her usual sure-fire self, even as their current situation was atypical in every sense of the word. In one swift motion of her visage, she unlocked the door using her telekinesis, which creaked languorously open. Bags in hand, the pair glanced at each other as if to give one another permission for entry. _After you,_ Harry motioned, as Macy stepped through the wide-mouthed threshold, finding herself bathed in light once more, as Harry silently shut the weighted door behind them.


	3. The Ambient Lounge

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry and Macy enter the hidden room, exhausted from earlier events. Harry internally debates whether to come clean.

3 The Ambient Lounge

_Autumn 1994, Ambient Lounge_

_After you,_ Harry motioned, as Macy stepped through the wide-mouthed threshold, finding herself bathed in light once more, as Harry silently shut the weighted door behind them. The so-called practice room was surprisingly bright, not to mention spacious. After putting their bags down in a corner, Macy cast sound, sight, and visual charms to prevent would-be intruders, Harry looking on in admiration.

_My future wife._

He gave a start. Where had _that_ thought come from?

 _Not now,_ he told himself as he removed his shoes, identifying at once that he was, yet again, in frenemy territory. He swallowed hard, taking stock of his mildly-dated surroundings, dust-free and pristine. It was the same _endroit_ he’d imagined those countless nights ago from years past, where he’d spent many an autumn evening by waxen candlelight, staring upward at a lithe buxom blond as she stepped onto the wrought-iron bookshelf ladder to retrieve her latest tome, while donning a chic cropped pearlescent minidress.

Reliance on instinct had led him astray, time and time again; he found a certain degree of dark humor, not to mention irony, that he had taken his sweet lamb of a Charmed One to his former lover’s secret lovemaking lair. Macy was aware he’d had a past, but how would she react knowing it collided ever-so-painfully with her present?

 _To tell, or not to tell, that was the question…_ as he turned to his right, finding the ivory ceramic tiled bathroom just as he’d left it decades earlier, its accompanying wide gold-plated showerhead firmly affixed to the ceiling. A frosted-over double-edged window allowed some semblance of sunshine to filter through, and the porcelain claw-footed bathtub he recognized all too well was situated at its right.

_There had been no bathroom curtains of any kind—but then again, there was never any need._

He turned, hearing Macy exclaim about the quaint walnut wood kitchenette, artfully repurposed from the library science department’s card catalog bureau, retired due to the advent of the world wide web, its four-by-four rectangular drawers eclectic and tasteful, as if out of a home décor magazine, Pinterest, or similar. Leaving the bathroom, he regarded the adjoining wall, all top six rows filled to the brim with books arranged by color. The bottom seventh shelf contained space for what he recalled were the typical purses and shoes the blond once carried, now a literal blank space, free for the taking.

Harry ran his forefinger along the row above the bottom three shelves, which contained a unicorn ombre cornucopia of iridescent-bound literature—perhaps, he had often guessed, the unknowable texts of the now-extinguished Elder community, due to his own inability to open said books, no matter how hard he tried so very long ago. The two shelves above this contained books the color of ebony, transforming into deep shades of emerald, then apple green.

The next shelves contained crimson tomes, segueing into clementine shades, mustard yellow, subtle goldenrod, then hints of mauve, followed by peach and damask hues. The final and top-most shelf contained alabaster-colored books, her favorite, Harry recalled. _Was it her preferred hue due to her Elder duties and uniform, or had it been her favorite long before?_ It was almost as if one asked which came first, the chicken or the egg. In times such as these, it was exceptionally difficult, if not impossible, to tell.

He followed the sound of Macy’s voice past the walnut kitchenette, geodesic Portuguese tile-patterned backsplash, 1980s gas oven, clay-grey cabinetry, nondescript office-style drip coffeemaker included, to where she stood alongside the stacked vintage fridge and freezer. “We should probably unload the comestibles—” she glanced at him.

“Oh? Oh—right—the food—” he snapped out of his momentary jaunt down memory lane, as he strode toward their luggage, pulling out various perishables—eggs, sausages, fresh vegetables and fruit—that Mel had hurriedly loaded before he and Macy had left. He secretly admired his middle charge’s foresight at having packed the items surrounded by icepacks. There was no way on earth he’d have done the same, were it he in her shoes.

As he stacked the carrots atop the broccoli, thoughts swirled about his head. _Do I tell her?_ He glanced over at her curvaceous figure, now examining the emerald tomes atop the bookshelf, pulling one out to read silently to herself as she began to smile once more, a truly welcome sight.

 _No,_ he decided. _Not yet._

She continued to thumb through the delicate parchment papers of “How to Train a Unicorn.” If she had been more lucid, she would have remarked on the peculiarity of such a piece of literature on the shelves of a repurposed teacher’s lounge, but she had no more strength to devote to such ventures.

Harry thought of his most recent online Twitter debate on linguistics and phoneaesthetics, otherwise known as the study of pleasantness associated with sounds of words, or fragments of words. For instance, the tonality of “Pinterest” flowed more easily upon the tongue rather than “Pin-Interest,” a rather distinctive lesson in euphony and cacophony, respectively. He mused that the same could likely be said of the fanfic term “Whumptober,” combining the terms “Whump” and “October,” denoting the eighth lunar calendar month (tenth, factoring the Julian calendar), devoted almost exclusively to unhappily-ever-afters.

_Love, I’ve stripped you of your cherished home and devoted family and taken you to my secret mistress’ protective lair, oh, I don’t know—say, twenty-odd years ago. You’re ok with that, right?_

Somehow, in his head, that statement seemed like the perfect recipe for disaster, not to mention untold amounts of mental anguish that would best be avoided, so Macy could begin uncovering an antidote with a clear head upon those lovely shoulders of hers, curlicued tresses and such. If she were irate enough, he imagined her throwing a heavy book at his head. If, on the unfortunate occasion she were absolutely livid, he would fear for life and limb, and he wanted the two of them to survive the scourge of Scythe in one piece, if at all possible.

_As it were, she had no idea which college they were situated at, not to mention time zone, but comprehended “when” they were._

Placing the book back on the shelf, Macy spotted through the tall adjoining Baroque-style mirror a reflection of an unusually sumptuous queen-sized bed, propped up from the floor by way of wooden crates. Desperate for escape, even through temporary means such as slumber, she turned and strode toward its corporeality and flopped down upon its white linen sheets, never bothering to remove her shoes. Seeing this, Harry set Macy’s bag of ground French roast coffee atop the walnut counter, gently padding upon the wood floor to where she laid upon the elevated mattress, stooping to remove her shoes, placing them on the floor at the foot of the bed, after which he kneeled toward her visage, stroking her wild, altogether wonderful curls.

 _It would have to be enough, for now,_ he decided as he turned on his cell phone to a flurry of concerned texts from Maggie and Mel, both of whom were situated on a different temporal plane. _The present._

 _We’re safe,_ he typed, clicking the _send_ button, allowing the message to travel through digital cyberspace beyond the confines of their ambient enclave, before shutting the device down once more.

_We’re safe._

_For now._


	4. The Solitary Transient

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Macy dreams she's back in boarding school and wakes up in the ambient lounge, knowing when but not *where* she is. Being a geneticist may be challenging since she's arrived one year before the first-ever genomic sequencing (Haemophilius influenzae, 1995). What now?

4 The Solitary Transient

_Through the twisted dormant brambles and wrought-iron turrets I must have gone, battlement by aged battlement, though I could not recall having passed them in our haste to press onward. Perhaps orbing was a possibility in this world, one never knew; the brownstone exterior instantly gave way to burnished crimson brick buried beneath a glossy umber sheen from the reflective flooring onto the adjoining walls, creating the illusory likeness of a below-ground migratory tunnel of sorts._

_I gasped, recognizing my surroundings immediately for what it was._

_Boarding school._

_I was a new student, catapulted to this endroit, courtesy of a family friend of the reverend (such friendship had endured three years’ long, sufficient enough to establish credibility in my father’s eyes). Without a fellow student to meet me, I was left alone, lost in what I believed to be a nondescript church corridor. Lacking direction of any sort, I wandered left, stepping up five small, slight stairs to the children’s section—for I was a child, was I not?_

_Thought like a child, breathed like a child—posited I—though my outward appearance, melanin-hued coltish legs and long curly hair told a different story. Then, a kind laywoman or nun with grey-streaked cropped hair called out from the cubic stairwell, directing me upstairs straightaway. I hastened to follow her as my subconscious attempted to shelve my innermost sentiments as far away as they could go—_

_We were always moving, always sending our regards; perhaps this was a home—but in the deepest recesses of my being, I knew it was neither ‘the home’ nor ‘my home.’_

_Blushing, I nodded hello to the aged woman and swiftly followed her, landing almost simultaneously within a 2000s-style acoustic room, carefully-cut class size of ten—this was no doubt a costly education. But for whom? The child or the father? What of the mother? I recalled my father’s stony refusal to discuss her supposed mortality that had struck when I was a mere infant. Smoothing the uniform I realized I had donned, I sat upon the grey carpeted flooring, indecision plaguing my frontal lobe as I debated between the higher miniature stair, and the lower, but there was, yet again, no room for me._

_I never belonged. Never. Not once._

_The people nearest me had maracas. I had none, and no one offered theirs. Pinching myself, I felt no pain, wondering if I was invisible to all parties but the instructors, who couldn’t decipher between a corporeal pupil and a transient memory. Do I sit on the lower step or the higher? There never seemed to be any room. A tussle broke out across the room just then, interrupting my thoughts, between a lanky teen and shorter boy, as they scraped and tumbled near the metallic luster of the xylophone. The reverend’s sons. He didn’t stop them. I knew he never would._

_Then a van ride, as an escape—a joyride perhaps—a surprise visit to father—with two other female student hitchhikers, one appearing in ornate gold-ribboned hairstyle typical and required of her Nomadic Eurasian royal roots or so she claimed—reality blended with the surreal, and I understood as a youth to accept the reality laid before me. To never investigate. To keep one’s head down, studious and diligent, even and especially if that meant venturing out of my hometown, leaving my neighborhood behind._

_For I was traveling, always traveling._

_A celebrity alum, a pale ambitious brunette from the boarding school, sat one seat across from my own, but never bothered to hand us over to administrative authorities, the lot of us. Perhaps she too, was making her necessary escape, I mused, taking note of the passing visions of townhouses outside my window, seemingly made entirely of Swedish worn timber as I pointed them out excitedly to the alum, that they reminded me of home though I knew not what home was. Understandably, she was far less invested in these observations than I._

_Perhaps my attempt to escape had been clumsy; I found myself standing in towering ceremonial seating, outmoded cell phone in hand, wanting to pin my location for the world to see—for him to find me—I nearly could if nobody was watching—if only I hadn’t sat in the front pews—still knowing he would never return—at least not for awhile._

_And I was stuck, stuck here for a seeming eternity. Isolation._

_But camaraderie would soon follow._

_Right?_

_Next Morning, Autumn 1994, Ambient Lounge_

Macy blinked, sunlight streaming in through the transparent glass spacings interspersed between the frosted cubic windowpanes, realizing she was no longer surrounded by umber walls. _Vera Manor?_ Her hand brushed the timber crates elevating the mattress above the hard flooring, as the echoes of “Say (All I Need)” by OneRepublic rang in her ears, likely due to having heard Melanija’s latest music clip on Twitter.

_Do you know where your heart is…/Do you know where your love is…_

_Yes_ , she wanted to say, hearing a familiar British man whistling a Scottish ballad in the other room of love, loss, and redemption. I know _where_ he is, I know _when_ I am—I know—

I know what I don’t know. And nothing makes any sense.

_Well all I need is the air I breathe/And a place to rest my head…_

1994\. The year 1994, Anno Domini. Breathing. Alive. Rested. Not bereft of function… _yet_. She glanced at her fingertips, her nails, hands, arms, the sheets surrounding her, and further on, the rainbow color-coordinated bookshelf, a large sumptuous mirror to its left.

_Do you know what your fate is…/And are you trying to shake it…_

_So many little squares, stacked atop each other, far too numerous to count._ They reminded her of an old-school telephone, the square numbers aligned in an organized three-by-three pattern. She imagined for a moment those cubes upon cubes, equaling a window, a solid-walled window barricading her own physicality Scythe had yet to breach—along with the collective soul of millions further on in time as they waited with bated breath, fearful of the harbinger of pestilence. _How do you count the loss of one? A tragedy. Of tens, hundreds? Thousands? A catastrophe of horrifying proportions._

Oddly, the first thought that came to mind was a Ferris wheel. Not just any Ferris wheel—the _Wiener Riesenstrad_ from _Der Dritte Mann “The Third Man”_ from her college cinematography course. The 1949 Austria-based film noir featured a “whodunit” sequence, in which the invisible-to-authorities perpetrator Harry Lime boarded a Ferris wheel with fiction writer Holly Martins, to its top, remarking callously that the people below were ants— _mere ants…_ She shivered involuntarily, pulling the linen sheets closer to her chest. She wasn’t an ant—just a human, in the throes of existentialist chaos like everyone else these days, fueled by the threat of imminent disease. _And she had to do something about it—but what?_

Action or inaction, all tied to a singular or multitudinous fate. But _fate_? What was fate these days? Waiting for an interminable eternity? Waiting for the end? _Or launching a new beginning?_ Her life’s work as a geneticist hadn’t even been conceived; the first organism to have its entire genome sequenced, the _Haemophilius influenzae_ , hadn’t yet been completed, and wouldn’t be, until the following year—1995.

Starting over wasn’t like with the Command Center, where people like Julian handed you jobs like candy the first moment they knew you were someone special—a Ph.D. from a highly-respected institution. Instead, this was as if the narrator had taken an Etch-a-Sketch to Vera Manor, or torched the manuscripts entirely. _Or had she? Whumptober was only a month—right?_

_Nothing’s turned out how you want it…/…You’re doing your best…_

Before sorrow could overwhelm her, her senses were overtaken by the tantalizing aroma of sizzling peppered pork sausages wheezing in the frying pan, not to mention scrambled eggs and fresh drip-roast coffee percolating mere feet away atop the walnut countertop. She sat up, dazed as her feet made contact with the solid surface beneath, finding herself scrambling for her phone which, miracle of miracles, was still inside her pocket.

 _We’re fine,_ she typed. A thought occurred to her. _M/M,_ she wrote, _what does Scythe eat? For breakfast?_ before shutting it off.

She spent the next several minutes staring blankly at the faux domestic bliss before her, Harry striding in from having shaved and washed his face in the tiled bathroom as she plastered on a smile, knowing she was fooling no one. “Breakfast smells delicious.”

_You’re praying that you’ll make it._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -Lyrics applied from "Say (All I Need)" by OneRepublic; check out my piano improv recording on Twitter!  
> -Genetics research was done (thanks Google!)  
> -"Der Dritte Mann"/"The Third Man" (1949) is a classic film noir. Highly recommend.


	5. A Parcel of Ginger

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In a flashback, Harry visits a dear friend, then hides a precious item while under Charity's watchful eye. Returning to 1994, Harry keeps Macy company during the start of their mandatory 2-week quarantine.

5 A Parcel of Ginger

_10 am, One Year Ago, Autumn 1993, Front Doorstep to Living Room, Vera Manor, Hilltowne, Michigan_

He straightened his collar nervously as he held the parcel, before taking a deep breath, knocking on the door to Vera Manor a second time. Moments later, he heard the turn of the bolt, a woman’s pale, disheveled though nevertheless ethereal, visage peering through, her eyes darting back and forth in the direction of the street behind him, checking for signs of Ray. Finding none, she turned her attention to him. “You brought them?”

Harry nodded, handing her the somewhat-crinkled paper bag. “Oh thank God. You’re an amazing friend. Come in,” she beckoned and he did so, shutting the door behind him, following her into the stately Victorian-style living room where they each took a seat across from the other; she placed the paper bag on the coffee table in front of them, pulling out a cellophane bag from within, of half-inch chopped pieces of daffodil-colored sweets.

“I hope you will find them suitable…for your condition, I mean?” Harry nodded at her barely visible bump hidden beneath the fabric of her blouse.

“I hope so,” she sighed, tearing the packaging open and popping one into her mouth. “Ray keeps forgetting which brand to buy. And between you and me, being among the most powerful of our kind, I would’ve thought they’d have found a cure for morning sickness by now.” She laughed ruefully, implicitly referencing the Elders. “Guess not.”

“How most unfortunate,” Harry remarked. “From a friend to another friend,” he hesitated. “How are you feeling these days?”

“Like death warmed over, even though the second trimester’s been reached,” she answered drily, ginger passing from one side of her cheek to the other. “Though on the bright side, my obstetrician says it’s a good sign.”

“Oh, is that so?” Harry’s visage brightened somewhat upon hearing her words, knowing the anguish she had suffered years before with her first, whose name remained unspoken upon her lips.

She nodded. “This one’s a stubborn one. I can tell,” she smiled. “Would you like to meet her?”

“Her? So it’s a girl, I presume?” Harry tilted his head. “Certainly—but how—?” She sat beside him and laid his hand upon her abdomen. Less than a second passed before he felt an undeniable kick— _a poke of the toes?_ Followed by what felt like tiny punches of balled-up fists protruding forth in a rather unearthly manner. He hurriedly lifted his hand as Marisol resumed her usual seat. “I don’t think she likes me very much…” his voice trailed off.

“Oh, she’ll warm up to you,” she replied, with a jovial-yet-furtive expression. “Just give her time.”

_10 am, Autumn 1993, Neighborhood Intersection near Vera Manor, HIlltowne, Michigan_

Ray stared at his car’s rear-view mirror, having observed a pale well-dressed man with chestnut hair knock on Vera Manor’s front door. _Perhaps the guy was a door-to-door salesman?_ He expected his shrewd wife to use her sharp tongue to turn the sucker away, tail between his legs, but to his surprise, she scanned the street behind him as if she held a secret. _What the hell?_

_10:30 am, Autumn 1993, Living Room, Vera Manor, Hilltowne, Michigan_

“Where’s Ray?” Harry sipped a cup of Earl Grey tea he’d fixed himself in the kitchen, due to Marisol’s extreme aversion to smells of any kind. Fresh boiled water poured into a ceramic cup, with a steeped teabag draped within for a couple of minutes then hastily removed, with a splash of dairy and a toss of sugar. _Old habits die hard, so the American idiom went._

“Him? Oh, he left minutes ago for another archaeological convention. Just after the other two,” she replied, slowly chewing the candied ginger in millimeter-sized bites, swallowing each miniscule particle bit-by-bit, hoping her stomach would tolerate the whole eventually. “You’re a lifesaver—”

Harry blushed. “I try—”

“Harry, _I mean it._ ”

“Right—” he cleared his throat indelicately. “What brings me here today?”

She handed him a CD in a hard plastic case, as he gave a start. “That must have cost a pretty penny, especially in this era!”

The expectant woman disregarded his financial commentary. “I converted it from a floppy disk; times are changing.” She fixed her eyes on his. “I can tell.”

He ran his fingers around the object’s square perimeter. “You went through all that trouble…” Harry placed the case on the coffee table. “Why?”

“ _Why do you think?”_ She sighed and massaged her temple. “Sorry, my emotions are all over the place these days. And I—I just knew I had to.” Harry continued to take small sips of his tea as the woman smoothed her somewhat tousled hair. “Does she know you’re here, Harry?” He shook his head, offering her another ginger chew, which she accepted straightaway. “Good. More lives’ll be saved that way, on either end.”

Harry wasn’t quite sure what to make of that. He checked his analog watch. “I must take my leave,” he stated, beginning to stand, as she reached out and handed him the CD.

“You’ll need this one day, when pestilence strikes and you’re protecting my daughter.”

He nearly laughed, but his smile faded as he observed Marisol’s serious expression. “Are you telling me the fate of humanity rests in…” he shook the case in his hand. “This bit here?”

Marisol shook her head. “It’s for me to know, and you to figure out,” as she led him toward the doorway. As he made his exit, slipping the CD in a suit pocket, she called out one last time. “Tell her…” he paused in his tracks and turned around. “Tell Macy,” she continued, her voice growing soft. “ _Tell her I love her_.”

_11 am/2 pm, Autumn 1993, Ambient Lounge_

He orbed directly within their hidden abode. If he hadn’t stored the memory of the library-style walnut table or the cubic window frame in his subconscious, who knew where he would have ended up? He had long since forgotten its true location, hidden within her collegial framework of outdated books, neglected hallways, and goodness knew what else.

“It’s you,” he saw her lithe frame, her back facing him as she stared outside through the crystalline slats cementing the frosted cubes together upon the window’s entirety.

“Who else would it be?” he answered, bemused. His mood soon turned serious as his fingers grazed the solid flat mass within his suit pocket. An idea came to him. “Charity, can I borrow a large book from your shelf?”

She angled her head toward him. “I barely ever use those things. Just pick one and its yours.”

 _Oh, this was certainly interesting._ “A-Are you certain?” He walked toward the color-coordinated bookshelf, surveying the peach, lemon, buttercup, emerald, and apple green hues.

“Positive.” She turned back toward the window and continued to regard something out of his own vision. Whatever it was, was certainly captivating her attention.

“Right, then.” Ruffling his hair through his fingers, he posed to himself the following: _if I were saving something for this ‘Macy’ woman, where would I put it?_ He anxiously paced around the shelves, studying each row in turn. Something close to the floor might cause accidental breakage, knowing Charity’s penchant for fancy designer purses that weighed nearly a stone (fourteen American pounds). He never was able to open the unicorn ombre books, so those were a no.

The black books after that, or the indigo-plum tomes that indicated darkness? _Certainly not._ He imagined Marisol’s daughter to be a child of light, perhaps conflicted due to what would be quite a complicated upbringing, with her soon-to-be half-sister on the way, not to mention a mother cursed by necromancer. The color orange always reminded him of foliage or anxiety, being a mild synesthesiac able to distinguish music having colors and tastes and the like. Truth be told, the hue reminded him of rainy days indoors with a surly caretaker, forced to eat mushy carrots that were once again, overcooked to oblivion. He shuddered as he raised his gaze to the remaining upper two shelves.

The top shelf wasn’t really an option—Charity used those the most; he secretly suspected they contained standard operating procedures for the Elder community and was thus the most traversed.

_Which left the final row, second from the top._

A large crimson book caught his eye, large enough, he estimated, for the CD case, he believed, as he removed the tome from the shelf by the base of its astonishingly sturdy spine. _By jove, I’ve found it._ He made various muttered excuses about using the adjoining bathroom, though Charity hardly noticed, waving him to go on. _Truth be told, this enclave arrangement was a mite claustrophobic. Was it because of her, or him?_

_2:30 pm, Autumn 1993, Bathroom, Ambient Lounge_

He scrambled for his Swiss army knife buried beneath his shaving kit; upon finding the object, he flipped open its two-inch knife and began slicing through the center-most of the pages. _Desecration of literature—forgive me?_ He silently beseeched a higher power, hoping his literary mutilation would be reframed as utilitarian prowess, as he heard a silken tearing sound emanate from its core. _For the greater good._

_2:50 pm, Autumn 1993, Ambient Lounge_

Harry emerged from the bathroom, discreetly sliding the crimson book back in its place, lighter in density, but sentimentally weightier.

“That fast?” His head swiveled to face her crimson lips, bright tresses, and sculpted form.

 _Should I tell her?_ Almost in that same instant, he could hear Marisol shout a resounding _NO_ , plain as day _._ “O-oh,” he stammered, collecting himself. _Ok then. You’ve made yourself quite clear, my friend._ “Just a skim, I suppose,” his eyes meeting Charity’s. “Might come back for it later. Actually, make that _definitely.”_

_Morning, Autumn 1994, Ambient Lounge_

After they finished their peppered pork sausages and the rest of their hearty breakfast, Harry ushered Macy into the bathroom to take a soothing soak in the claw-footed bath, complete with her latest “Heaven’s Vice” book. Once he made certain she was settled in, warm water, suds and all, he quietly closed the door behind him. Rather than wash the dishes immediately, he turned toward the bookshelf, removing a familiar crimson tome from the second-to-top shelf, holding his breath all the while.

Opening it to the page he had carved through, he exhaled, thoroughly relieved. _The CD was still there, case and all._

_When should I tell her?_

He heard her sigh through the closed bathroom door, imagining her tightened, tense muscles relaxing under the weight of a bubbled, opaque pool of liquid, as he placed the book, CD and all, back on the shelf. Making his way toward the aluminum-hued sink, he swiftly scrubbed the morning’s dishes and cutlery with a small bottle of dish detergent brought from Vera Manor. _Likely packed by Mel, who never missed a single detail._

Laying the dishes on a spare rack he’d found in the lower grey cabinet next to the stove, he tiptoed toward the bathroom door. “Mace,” he whispered. “Mace, are you ok?” His eyes wandered to the queen-sized bed, where Macy’s periwinkle-purple yoga mat was stationed, ready for use amidst these two weeks of mandatory quarantine, as a precaution against the danger that was Scythe. “ _Mace?”_

“I’m fine,” her voice rang out, sounding—amused? He cocked his head. “ _Aren’t you going to come join me?”_

He smiled, forgetting his troubles in that very moment as he re-entered the bathroom. “I would never refuse a lady,” he answered, his eyes glittering all the while.

_The past would have to wait._


	6. A Country Excursion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Macy has an odd nightmare involving the color crimson, a crow, and Charity. She senses Harry's hiding something but chalks it up to fears of Scythe. Quarantine makes her grumpy; she decides to restart a knitting project.

6 A Country Excursion

_I found myself in Hilltowne again, my sienna-hued wedge boots crushing the dampened fall foliage as I determinedly trod through the wide wrought-iron gates beckoning me in once more, sensing an altogether familiar kinship tying me to the earth. Mounds of Michigan emerald and peridot ivy inveigled itself tenuously ‘round the winding arches of the academia hedgerows as I followed its course through endless cobblestone paths, to what I recognized as the botany department’s organic orchard. I heard a chirp and caw, and without turning around, I knew—_

_The crow was following me._

_I hastened my footsteps, hoping to escape its wanton grasp as I heard the aviary creature cackle aloud, “age before beauty!” The mango trees, the apple blossoms—were those blue apples in the distance?—the thorny pineapple bushes, all became a singular blur as I tripped over an errant slate cobblestone, picking myself up quickly to find the nearest sanctuary. But there was none, and the bird knew it just as well as I._

_Hearing a rush of wind whistle past my ears, I whirled around—_

_And saw no one._

_“Show yourself!” I called out, and again a second time—but nobody answered—until—_

_I felt a tap on my shoulder from the other direction, and a British voice that spoke of home in the truest sense of the word. Smiling, I turned to peer at his handsome visage. Harry. Darling._

_“Follow me, Mace,” he murmured, caressing my cheek almost as if he were his very own doppelgänger, but I knew it was him. “She’s overworking you—but you really must learn to relax, love,” as he took my hand in his, the scenery transforming beneath our feet to a country excursion, courtesy of his Whitelighter abilities. The path before us turned from a sordid grey to amber flecked with yellow gold, with the faintest traces of crimson._

_“W-what did you have in mind?” I ask, surveying our surroundings, taking note of the French-sounding signage nearby along with the alpine crest of the distant mountainside._

_With a twist of his hand, a large throng of leaves gathered in a singular pile—two, then three, then four feet high. “How about we jump into this pile of leaves?” I shake my head, laughing all the while, but—he’s serious. I swallow hard. “Ladies first,” he adds, as I walk several meters back and race forward with a leaping start—_

_And suddenly, moments later, we’re tangled within each other, fully clothed—but still. I can sense his hardness as he hovers above and I swivel, pinning him to the dried fronds beneath us, the sky overhead thrumming with passion as I pin his wrist in the way I know he secretly enjoys best, his lips meeting mine in a tempestuous fury, our tongues dancing, twisting within the mouth of the other as I resurface for air, and notice in a passing glance, that the field has transformed, as if by Instagram filter, to a crimson hue for as far as the eye can see._

_Bright, undeniable, painted crimson._

_Coupled with the oddly recognizable scent of…_

_Parchment?_

_Ancient texts?_

_But…new, somehow._

_It doesn’t make sense, these constantly shifting puzzle pieces. I halt my romantic overtures, observing the crow flying in the distance; the scenery fades once more as I glance at myself in the upstairs Vera Manor mirror, leaves sticking out of my curly mahogany hair._

_“You’ve clearly been busy,” I gasp as I hear the familiar sardonic voice of my would-be murderess, as she steps out of the vaporous shadows, her flowing blond hair held back with an antique ivory hairpiece—_

_4 am, Next Morning, Autumn 1994, Ambient Lounge_

Macy bolted upright in bed, her eyes adjusting to the miasmic lamplight reflections dancing across the frosted glass window as her fingers brushed the timber crates beneath. She glanced over at Harry, who continued to sleep ever-so-peacefully, as her ragged breathing began to abate.

_Did you do this with Charity?_

The thought pierced her subconscious as she tried to swat it away, as one might do with a particularly aggressive gnat, unsure of where or why or how this rumination could have originated. Which was swiftly followed by another far more disconcerting thought.

_Harry’s hiding something from me._

She reflected on the motifs—the crimson color, the squawking crow that tailed her constantly, the scent of a crisp bit of literature that appeared aged, but…not. _What was the meaning of all this?_ In the next breath, she decided it was far too early to conduct a detailed dream interpretation, internet search or otherwise, and flopped back down, her head hitting her pillow, as she willed herself into a dreamless sleep, gently spooned by her beloved.

_8 am, Autumn 1994, Ambient Lounge_

Macy opened an enchanted purse from her duffel bag, containing a hygge potion from Maggie, akin to ambient potpourri. Gathering a pleasant whiff of it from its bottle, she grabbed a pinch of the substance and walked the perimeter of the ambient lounge, sprinkling it about as if she were anointing the enclave with sacred incense. Mere seconds later, the scent blossomed throughout—warm Madagascar vanilla and freshly-chopped Seattle cedar.

She found herself making a batch of drip-roast coffee in the vintage— _to her, at least—_ coffeemaker, absentmindedly wondering if there was a Bed, Bath, and Beyond nearby so she could update the lounge. She found through a cursory internet search that the company had originated in the 1970s and had gone public as its recognizable form in 1992, on the NASDAQ stock exchange. _Whew._ But her thoughts took her to other places as well.

 _Mel and Maggie._ Having been an only child for most of her life, she hadn’t known the joy of having sisters until quite recently. She willed away tears, knowing her newfound family had sacrificed her presence to save her for a second time, even if it meant a different chronological period and place. To travel home was impossible, at least until Spring. If that.

_9:45 am, Autumn 1994, Ambient Lounge_

Splatters of bleak autumn drizzle dotted the cubic ‘70’s-style opaque windows’ exterior, the glassy slivers between each square piece offering a somber, unobstructed view of the sodden campus grounds near which she found herself situated. She noticed, not for the first time that week, a small cluster of crows, cawing to no end, and could swear that one of them was staring straight at her—much like in her dream, come to think of it—

“Mace?”

She turned away from the pixel-like window frame to face the man to whom she ought to be grateful—thanking him, even, for rescuing her, steampunk-style, from near-certain death from silent, unwavering pestilence. But she was simmering with rage and frustration all the same, not to mention sorrow at having left her sisters behind at Vera Manor to see things through.

_Because of Scythe._

They were in a hardwood converted apartment with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, a crated bed, with a tiny kitchenette and a functional and questionably curtain-less bathroom, shower, tub and all. But it still wasn’t home. And she had so many unanswered questions, all of which concerned the Whitelighter who shared their humble abode; whether she wanted to know the answers was debatable.

She felt a tap on her shoulder and turned around. “Mace, are you ok?”

Macy rebuffed his touch and went to make herself a cup of coffee, the second one that morning, having discovered packets of sucralose in one of the library card-style drawers, along with non-dairy powdered creamer. “Is that even a question?” Harry made as though to approach her again, this time for a hug, but based on the fury and resentment prominent in her visage, decided to appreciate her from a suitable distance away.

_It’s not his fault._

_It’s Scythe’s._

“Harry, I’m sorry…” she took a deep breath as she stepped toward him. “You’ve done everything in your power to protect me.” She paused, parsing her words carefully. “I think the quarantine is making me hallucinate. I’m seeing memories that don’t exist, people who I know are dead—” as Harry cut her off gently.

“It’s ok, love. It’s ok,” he murmured soothing words into her curly tresses as they embraced mere moments later. “You just need a decent night’s rest. Soon, you’ll be right as rain.” To his utter relief, she nodded, putting his fears at bay. _She’s jumpy—anyone would be in this climate. Everything will run its course._

_Right?_

_Two Afternoons Later, 2 pm, Autumn 1994, Ambient Lounge_

“Can’t I just step out for a bit? I could really use a jog. _Please?”_ She attempted use of her long lashes and what she thought would pass for a beguiling stare worthy of Cleopatra, but Harry shook his head.

“You know the rules, love. Just one week more and then you’re free. Well, within reason—” he hastily added, imagining her in an alternate universe, ripping off her mask, skipping through the Austrian mountainside, belting “ _the hills are alive_ , _with the sound of music…_ ” at the top of her lungs as he stood back, horror-struck at her flagrant health code violations. _That would simply not do._

Macy groaned audibly. Sheltering in a single studio apartment-sized locale with twice the luggage meant a hint of claustrophobia. Fortunately, over the course of the past several days, she had gleaned the rules of her temporal plane enough to find respite in various and sundry creative ways. For one, thanks to her phone, her internet connection linked her to the present outside world—far beyond the confines of 1994. For another, she had whatever she brought with her, magic containers included. If she were missing a small object, she could simply text Maggie, who would drop it in her purse, landing straight in Macy’s.

_All things considered, she was rather lucky, even if she didn’t feel like it._

Yoga mat: _check_. Yarn: _check_. Still donned in her gym gear, jersey shorts, tank top and the like, she unrolled her yoga mat onto the wood floor and turned her phone to the next meditation music she had saved on her YouTube account. It was a daily ritual, yoga. Her method of temporarily escaping the four walls that seemed to close in on her by the day, suffocating her to no end. Bamboo flutes and nameless stringed instruments began to play as she closed her eyes. _This made it all the more bearable._

_6 pm, Autumn 1994, Ambient Lounge_

She knew she ought to be helping Harry get dinner ready or assisting his examination of the color-coordinated bookshelf as he was doing now, but she had other matters to attend to. Such as her knitting—a small buttercup-hued blanket made of the softest nylon blend threads. She had purchased her knitting needles and large spool of yarn the winter before, but between vanquishing the Source, Galvin’s death, the ensuing chaos that led them to Seattle, Julian, _then_ Harry, she had found she’d only completed slightly less than half of her intended project.

Having pulled out the spool, needles, and other bits of yarn, she resumed her work, her yarn obscured from Harry’s view by a pile of her genetics books and weathered 1858 third edition copy of “Gray’s Anatomy” from her postdoctoral years. It was impossible to explain, but she sensed an urgency to finish this effort, that propelled her forward as she hastily checked her stitched loops.

_Seventy stitches across, and a seemingly infinite number more to go…_


	7. When Beauty Fades

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Macy takes up insomnia night-knitting after another nightmare of Charity, then asks Harry to deliver Marisol a package. Ray and Choochi spot Harry. Quarantine ends and Macy decides she wants to figure out where she is.

7 When Beauty Fades

_She recalled her glib, elegant movements upon her landing atop Vera Manor’s second floor, proceeding down the creaking staircase, panther-like, effortlessly silent until it became her turn to pounce. Those moments of dewy morning quiet, investing her trust in this woman, whose hair was as light as her heart was dark. She looked the part, walked the walk, talked the talk—so why was it then her memory was fragmented, her encounters spotty, and why was it she woke as if repeating the day before, but with mysterious manifold injuries upon her forehead, nape of her neck, and willowy arms?_

_As she found herself under Charity’s tutelage once more, this time in a dreary silver-stone manor—perhaps Castle Braith in Scotland?—she overheard her would-be murderess’ words. “Just a colt,” the words echoed throughout, “an inexperienced orphan, with nothing to her name…” How could the woman say such things about her? But what if—her thoughts turned inward, as they often did—what if Charity was right?_

_She tossed her own mahogany curls past her shoulder as she placed the hands-width mercury-tipped knife in her palm from whence it had lain on the knotted table beside her, throwing her arm back, hurling the weapon, hearing it whistle as it flew, whooshing through the air—_

_Landing on the bullseye sixty feet away. Or more. She was never great at spatial awareness, even though she had quite the scientific skillset (or so she would like to believe). As if a pupil, she swiveled, her curls floating about her, seeking praise from her would-be mentor. “How’d I do?”_

_Upon which, she felt the steely talons of the blond crunch atop her shoulders, herself gasping in pain, startled by the physical intrusion as the blond twisted her arm behind her back as she cried aloud. “Charity, what’re you—why?”_

_“You’re shiny and new, but that fades, my dear,” Charity responded menacingly, now meeting her eyes as she stepped forward, inches away from her own melanin visage. “And when that day comes, he’ll run straight to me—” Producing an identical knife to the one thrown earlier, she threw it towards its target, splitting Macy’s own knife in two, causing it to melt onto the marble flooring, drip by steady drip…_

_One Week and Five Days into Quarantine, 4 am, Autumn 1994, Ambient Lounge_

Macy bolted up in bed, having had yet another nightmare in as many days. _Charity accosting her in Vera Manor’s bathroom, catty “Gossip Girl”-style. Charity stalking her vis-à-vis her crow bird messenger that did her bidding. And now, Charity metaphorically ending her life by medieval-style love triangle competition._ She sighed, massaging the pressure points of her visage. _Enough already—_

A buzz emanated from her phone, startling her. Glancing at her home screen, she noticed it was Mel. “Scythe’s allergic to Jell-O.” Macy bit her lip and smiled, glad that her sisters were making slow but steady progress on their temporal plane toward vanquishing Scythe. All she herself had, unfortunately, were vivid hallucinatory nightmares of the woman who tried to end her. Not to mention a halfway done buttercup-yellow knitting project and a periwinkle-hued yoga mat. _Hardly useful in mystical combat._

There was no use pretending to sleep; she would be haunted once more, and she preferred anything to _that_ , at least in this particular moment, at this witching hour, at this precise minute-to-the-second. Having managed to slip herself out of the linen sheets without waking Harry, she tiptoed to the kitchenette’s walnut table, where she turned on its dim under-cabinet light, proceeding to make herself a strong cup of drip-roast coffee.

_4:10 am, Autumn 1994, Ambient Lounge_

Piping-hot coffee and knitting accoutrements in hand, she studied the length of the ambient lounge. _Where should I sit?_ She didn’t want to risk waking Harry in case he needed to rescue her from whatever came their way. He had to keep his wits about him for the both of them. _The floor?_ No. That was for yoga. _Could she do yoga on the mat_ and _knit?_ She brushed that thought aside. Even for her, that involved far too much multi-tasking.

Harry had managed to unpack and stow away various items in the grey-worn cabinetry and library catalog drawers, and for the first time, Macy noticed the presence of a wood desk and rich emerald-hued upholstered chair at the back of the room, back left, just across the way from their shared bed. _How had she not noticed that before?_ Turning in the opposite direction, her eyes fell upon a small daybed with bohemian-style crocheted pillows and blankets nearer to the door leading to the darkened corridor. _That too…perhaps Harry had covered the place with his bags? Or, the room added furniture on an as-need basis?_

Rather than continue arguing with her subconscious, Macy padded toward the daybed, placing her cup of coffee on one of two circular mini Tibetan coffee tables that Harry must have found in a hidden lounge closet somewhere, appreciative of his past self’s ingenuity. _Deep down, he really did have a sense of style,_ she thought to herself as she sat cross-legged on the crocheted blanket, spreading her knitting supplies in front of her.

_Insomnia night-knitting. Was that even a thing?_

Loop thread, twist yarn in a figure eight or infinity symbol, in-out, and transfer the loop to the awaiting needle. She yawned and reached for a sip of coffee, in the glow of the kitchenette light, imagining herself the modern-day equivalent of a Renaissance woman stitching a gown fireside.

_It was now._

_7 am, Autumn 1994, Ambient Lounge_

Nearly three hours later, Macy looked up from her knitting. The sun was beginning to rise, as she saw the muddled lamplight flicker off. Her fingers began to ache with the beginnings of what she believed was carpal tunnel—

As a familiar set of hands began to massage her own. She glanced up briefly and saw his crinkled, sympathetic eyes once more, lined with concern over her well-being. “How did you sleep, Mace?” he asked softly as she felt his hands wear away the tension and tightness in her own.

“I took up night-knitting…” she trailed off, avoiding making eye contact for longer than she could bear, turning her attention to her yarn spool, the color of sunshine, daisies, and joy.

“That bad?”

“You’ve no idea. But, hey, progress?” She held up the three-quarters finished product, a dainty blanket.

Harry smiled. “Oh, Macy,” he murmured, reaching over to stroke her sumptuous curls, “that’s _lovely._ ”

_One Week and Six Days into Quarantine, Mid-Afternoon, Autumn 1994, Ambient Lounge_

After an hour of fitness by way of yoga and meditation on the mat, Macy found herself adding the finishing touches to the small buttercup-yellow blanket. Her insomniac 4 am back-to-back knitting marathons had helped her make substantial progress in her artfully-crafted piece, and as the finishing end-stage stitches were made and a final knot added, she laid the item atop the daybed to admire her handiwork. It was far too small to be an adult’s blanket let alone an average child’s, she realized, but she knew that she hadn’t made the object with those uses in mind.

“Who’s that for?” She didn’t bother turning around, having heard the familiar lilt of his accent many times before.

She hesitated. “I-I get this sounds crazy, but I think it’s for a baby—” She stopped, realizing what year it was. _1994._

“My mom’s—” Macy began, as he concurred. “But I can’t—the curse—”

“You are correct,” he answered gravely, surveying the now-forlorn figure as she did the mental math. Mel would probably have just been born.

“Oh—and Mel’s…?” Macy finally turned to Harry, who regarded her with a certain degree of intensity. “She’s probably alone at home, with Mel?”

“That is quite likely.” He paused for a beat, then sat next to Macy on the daybed. “And if I remember correctly from the year before, your sister _in fetu_ seemed, and I quote, ‘a stubborn one,’ whatever on earth that meant—”

Macy laughed. “Sounds just like her—”

“I know, love.” He placed his arm around her shoulder as they stared ahead in silence, before continuing their conversation. “If you don’t mind my asking, why did you knit a baby’s blanket in the first place?”

“I dunno,” Macy answered, her eyes wandering to the frosted cubed window. “I-I just had…a feeling. And now it’s starting to make sense.” She remembered from her biology class on thermoregulation that babies were especially sensitive to extreme shifts in temperature due to their size and other factors. “Harry, could you do me a favor?”

“For you?” He leaned his visage ever-closer to her own. “ _Anything.”_ To his astonishment, she handed him the baby blanket.

“Will you give it to her? Tomorrow? And tell her it’s from me?”

Harry’s hand reached for her own. “Yes, if that is what you wish.”

_Two Weeks, Quarantine Complete, Mid-Morning, Autumn 1994, Ambient Lounge_

Macy placed the gently-folded blanket in a small paper bag, writing a short, quick note on its side. “ _For Mel.”_ Placing the bag in Harry’s outstretched hand, she watched as he orbed away to Vera Manor, 1994.

_Mid-Morning, Autumn 1994, Front Doorstep, Vera Manor, Hilltowne, Michigan_

Harry found himself at the threshold of Vera Manor once more. If he were feeling particularly casual, he would have jokingly demanded a spare key and a ceramic mug to call his own, for all the time he was spending there. Perhaps a pair of fuzzy socks or slippers too. _The wood surface did seem awfully chilled at times._ However, he never once breached decorum; he knocked once, a delicate _rap_ at the door. It was only polite, after all.

He had brought a matching bouquet of miniature yellow roses from the florist down the street, symbolic of undying platonic friendship.

_Mid-Morning, Autumn 1994, Down the Street, Hilltowne, Michigan_

Ray handed the binoculars back to Charles (or Choochi, as he was known in his circle of friends, due to his inane obsession with collecting toy trains coupled with his prowess in overseeing sting operations). “I’m being played.” He sighed heavily as he wiped his visage with the palm of his hand, betraying his underlying emotions to his nearest and dearest buddy.

“Maybe it’s not as bad as you think?” Choochi sounded hopeful as he regarded the distant pair through the binoculars, noticing the tall, dashing figure positively waltz into the stately abode. “Actually, forget I said that—”

Ray’s shoulders slumped in the scratched-faux leather car seat. He had no fight left within him, between archaeological conventions meant to boost his flagging career, his wife’s pregnancy, strange occurrences around Vera Manor that had him calling the plumber, electrician, and fire department at all hours of the night, sometimes all at once, only to be met with… _nothing_ , the fiery, sparking source of the calls having disappeared entirely.

_He often wondered whether he was hallucinating._

_And now he knew he wasn’t._

_Mid-Morning, Autumn 1994, Nursery, Vera Manor, Hilltowne, Michigan_

“Tell her I say thank you,” Marisol’s voice rang out softly, the gauzy curtains shimmering in the crisp fall sun-soaked breeze, as the young woman unwrapped the parcel, Harry standing at a suitable distance as he heard a baby squealing from the crib some feet away.

“How did you know?” Harry inquired, astonished.

“Her handwriting and stitching,” she replied in a bemused tone, though with sorrowful eyes and a faintly bittersweet expression, showing him what Macy had written. _For Mel._ “It’s just like mine,” Marisol whispered, as she unfolded the blanket, and laid it atop her baby’s wriggling figure.

“For you, Mellie, a gift from your older sister Macy, who loves you very much.”

_Two Weeks, Quarantine Complete, Mid-Morning, Autumn 1994, Ambient Lounge_

Harry orbed back as soon as he could, finding himself within the relaxed confines of the ambient lounge once more. _But where on earth was Macy?_ She wasn’t in bed, nor at the desk across the room, nor at the kitchenette or the daybed.

His investigation soon ended as he heard a stifled sob from behind the locked bathroom door. “Mace, are you in need of help?” His hand rapped on the door anxiously, hoping to cure whatever ill his oldest charge had, as the door swung open, her eyes red-rimmed as if she’d been crying a great deal.

“No, I-I’m fine.” She blinked rapidly, as if her willing her emotions away would make it so. “It all hit me, that Marisol’s here, and Mel, and…I’m here…but not. Like I’m a ghost in my own story. Is this what a time traveler feels like? Neither here nor there, but somehow... _everywhere?”_

Rather than ensconce himself in the bottomless well of her sorrow, as tempting as that was, to give her ample comfort in an intimate _endroit_ , his better judgment prevailed. “Let’s go for a walk,” he suggested, “since our quarantine is over and we need to situate and assimilate ourselves to our environment—get some fresh air—? There’s so much I need to tell you—”

Macy gulped and nodded resolutely. “Yes, Harry. I think that’s a excellent idea. I need to know where I am.”


	8. Welcome to Callahan College

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Macy figures out where she is, gets telekinesis-angry, not to mention quite drunk. Harry picks up the pieces the morning after.

8 Welcome to Callahan College

_“I went broke believing/That the simple should be hard.” –“All We Are” song by Matt Nathanson_

_Two Weeks, Quarantine Complete, Mid-Morning, Autumn 1994, Ambient Lounge to Darkened Corridor to Interior Campus_

Macy took Harry’s hand as they exited the ambient lounge, masks donned, with scarves wound atop for a distinctly New Englander style of dress, knee-high coats and all. “ _Hominum revelio,”_ he whispered, glancing to his left and right in the corridor Macy recognized from two weeks before. Nothing happened, which meant no other humans were afoot; the coast was clear. Harry whispered something inaudible as Macy closed and locked the door behind them using her telekinesis, no doubt to add a bit of Whitelighter protection to the enclave.

They traversed the length of the cerulean blue hallway, which led to far spacious chambers, Macy noticed, as they passed a series of ornate chandeliered common rooms, makeshift offices, and tasteful antique furniture that oddly was a mix of dated and bohemian eclectic, similar to the ambient lounge they had recently departed, with bursts of gold trim, emerald fabric upholstered seating, and mixed hues of a collegiate crest of a school Macy could not quite make out, the font was so small. Discovering a side door, Harry motioned her over and as it swung open, she found herself inhaling a lungful of fresh autumn air, the first time in what seemed like forever.

_But what was the college’s name?_

_Where was she?_

_Mid-Morning, Autumn 1994, Exterior Campus_

For all her smartphone’s intricacies, it was somehow unable to allow geotagging or pinning despite being on solid ground; this was likely a function of time travel, where only the items brought or technological tools carried worked amongst themselves, and not in tandem with the rest of the 1994 scenery. She was tempted to capture photos of the gorgeous crimson foliage before her, tucked behind a large bare oak tree, located to the right of a distinctly Gothic stone building, its arched windows ornate and scalloped.

Macy spotted two other trees on either side of the Gothic architectural structure; she walked toward the leftmost one, noticing a black iron lamppost illuminating what appeared to be a sign of some sort— _perhaps this was a departmental office?_ The windows and walls inside appeared too high and large for a standard student’s dorm. The interior lighting, from where she was standing, seemed far too 1980s fluorescent to be a common room, or on second thought, an office of any kind. _A library, perhaps?_

_Mid-Morning, Autumn 1994, Lamplit Signage, Exterior Campus_

She gasped, halting in her tracks.

No. _No. NO!_ Her body began to tremble as she collapsed onto her knees, falling upon the moist earth below her.

 _Tell me I’m wrong, please Harry, tell me I’m wrong!_ Harry crouched by her side, his eyes meeting hers as he remained silent, confirming her worst suspicions; both were oblivious to the crow standing above, observing them from the gnarled oak tree. Harry made as though to offer soothing words of comfort—a balm of relief in these challenging times—she slapped his hand away, raising herself to a standing position once more.

“ _You brought me to Callahan College—”_ she hissed, her eyes beginning to flash a most peculiar amber flecked orange that he hadn’t seen since she harbored the Source. Harry nodded quickly as he backed away, stumbling in his tracks, noticing the sudden change in ocular hue. _Shite. Shite. Shite._

“ _As in—Charity Callahan?”_

 _“_ That she founded—as a matter of speaking—er— _yes,”_ Harry knew he was treading on dangerous waters, as he felt the heel of his toe hit the oak tree’s root, knowing his back was about to collide with the aged tree.

 _Even in death,_ Macy thought, her eyes scorching with fury and indignation, _Charity loomed larger than life,_ as a swift upward twist of her wrist uprooted the lamppost which catapulted into the air, landing with a sickening _crunch_ on a giant marble monument several hundred meters away, of the same blond murderess who had haunted every one of her nightmares since stepping into the ambient lounge.

“M-M-Mace—” _That was a first,_ Macy wryly observed. _A three-letter stutter from Harry._ “I-I can explain—"

“ _Ten seconds—”_ Her hand lifted once more from where they stood, trailing the tips of the ancient oak tree far above them by way of telekinesis, as he saw one of its leaves float down to their feet, sliced in a million zig-zagged smithereens. _She wouldn’t dare destroy the tree that predated the college—would she?_ Harry began to sweat bullets, realizing Macy felt deeply deceived. Of course he understood her antipathy—Charity had murdered her mother, attempted to poison her mind _and_ end her as well. And he’d dated the blond, even if it was decades into the past. But their magic stronghold in the year 1994 was the only thing preventing Scythe from reaching her— _how can I make her realize that?_

“Mace, the ambient lounge is the safest magical place for you—if you don’t reside there, Scythe will detect your magic and hunt you, and your life will become…” he trailed off, blinking rapidly, “…an exceptionally _short_ one.”

“You had so many chances to tell me, Harry,” Macy’s eyes returned to their normal color, though Harry could have sworn he detected a faint trace of gold within. “You had Vera Manor—”

“If you had known then, honestly, Macy, would you have gone?” Rather than dignify Harry’s question with a reply, she stormed off toward the college’s gates, in the general direction of the local town park. “Mace, where on _earth_ are you going—” as she veered around, amber-orange eyes flashing once more.

“You had till 4 am—you had the entirety of the darkened corridor—hell, even kid Melanija knew. An elementary schoolgirl tangential to the plot _knew_. _And you, of all people, left me in the dark.”_

“I-I was afraid,” Harry’s voice faltered as he continued to meet her glare. “That once you found out—how you’d react—it being—” he gulped, whispering, “ _Charity—”_

“It’s not that it was _her,_ Harry. You lied to me. By omission. How can I ever trust you with anything?”

“I’m sorry, love—” he tenuously reached out to hold her hand, but she flinched.

“ _Don’t call me that!”_ She smoothed her knee-length fall coat and continued on her way, Harry orbing in front of her as she speed-walked—a repetitive _pop-pop-pop_ noise as he disappeared, orbed closer, reappeared, and so on, in a vain attempt to stop whatever she had her mind set on. “And stop that, you’re making me dizzy—”

“Sorry, l—” he held back the last word. _Love._ “You need to reside at the ambient lounge each night, that’s how you’ll survive Scythe. Your sisters love you—think of them. Make sure their sacrifice’s not in vain?” He beseeched her, hoping beyond hope she would listen to reason.

She stopped. “ _Fine._ But that doesn’t mean I like any part of it. And I don’t have to go there except to sleep.”

“P-point taken,” Harry held his hands up, as if in surrender.

“I’m going for a walk in the meantime—” Macy broke away, crossing the street onto the cemetery, followed by the recreational park to its side, its forest swept bare with the coming of autumn.

“ _By all means.”_

_8:30 pm, Autumn 1994, Ambient Lounge_

Harry checked his phone and frowned. _Where on earth was Macy?_

He attempted to give her the space she needed to gather herself together, but he had grown worried when she failed to reply to his first text at noon, followed by his subsequent messages sent at 3 pm, then 6, as afternoon stretched into early evening, the lamplight flickering on, pools of light filtering through the frosted glass window panes.

Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony emanated at low volume from the cassette tape player he dusted off from the closet, his tape and records collection still safely kept within, as he sat on the emerald desk chair, unfurling the evening newspaper. The front page section had everything he already knew about the locale; the most important items, he found, were in the metropolitan section, which contained a rather strange account of five hundred birds flying out at once from the local park, and an inebriated college male’s description of a woman with yellow eyes—

_Bloody hell._

He crumpled the newspaper in frustration, striding toward the kitchenette, before doubling back, neatly folding it into its original rectangular shape atop the desk. The tantalizing aroma of _poulet_ wafting throughout the chamber, Harry turned his attention toward the oven as the timer went off. _Baked chicken with rosemary, sea salt, a hint of crushed peppercorn, deftly brushed with olive oil._ A peace offering, perhaps. If only the recipient were here to enjoy it. Just then—

The door swung open with a clatter, denting the opposite wall in a slivered crescent, as two tiny beaded amber beams reflected haphazardly upon the floor, causing him to breathe a sigh of relief, however short-lived, as he uttered protective words to seal the enclave once more, locking the door in the process. Her form stumbled toward him as he bade her to sit, gradually realizing she bore the unmistakable stench of vodka about her.

“How much have you had?” he sucked his breath inward.

“ _Enough to forget—”_ as she made a mad dash to the bathroom, banging the door shut behind her.

_Next Morning, 10 am, Autumn 1994, Ambient Lounge_

Harry checked his phone, noticing from his emerald upholstered seat that Macy had somehow tiptoed out of bed without his noticing, and seemed to be drawing herself a bath. Or shower. Either way, it was all in the same room. The morning newspaper hadn’t made note of any unusual injuries to life or limb, human, animal, or otherwise, indicating that Macy had enough human in her to show a modicum of restraint.

“ _Mace?”_ He crept toward the door, a sliver of light spilling onto the would-be studio apartment—

“STAY-AWAY-FROM-ME!” Macy roared, the door slamming as he felt himself hurled against the opposite wall’s spare closet, landing in a heap among his and her emptied suitcases. Seconds later, massaging his scalp, he rose to his feet and stepped forward, attempting to twist the bathroom doorknob, precisely at the moment she locked it.

_Blast it all._

_10:30 am, Autumn 1994, Ambient Lounge_

“We really must discuss this—” Harry called out, his mouth upon the keyhole. “I know you’re upset, but it’s imperative we remain a unified front—” Still no answer. “Look, Mace,” he sighed. “You can’t stay mad at me forever—” he tripped forward as the door opened, revealing a fully clothed Macy. He gasped, knowing this was a bad sign, as Macy was typically unable to resist his romantic ardor, even in the worst of moods—but this time was different.

_11 am, Autumn 1994, Ambient Lounge_

“Hair of the dog?” Harry hesitantly offered, placing the glass upon the walnut countertop. “No dog hair this time…haha?” His attempted joke fell flat, though Macy seized the proffered glass, slowly sipping its contents as her visage gradually revived itself once more.

“ _Thanks_ ,” she muttered, reluctant to show any gratitude toward the British time-traveling miscreant standing before her, who continued gazing into her eyes as though he could see her soul and the shards that pierced it.

“Toast?” he offered her a half-slice on a ceramic saucer, enough to whet her appetite without causing additional stomach upset. Harry made as though to lift the crisped piece to her lips, but she used telekinesis to swipe the bread away from his grasp and onto the palm of her outstretched hand.

“I can feed myself, _thanks,_ ” Macy all but growled, tearing off a centimeter’s worth, placing the morsel atop her outstretched tongue. Harry involuntarily shivered; were it not for her ire, he would have kissed her in an instant; her telekinetic prowess made her that much more irresistibly alluring.


	9. Cemetery Hill

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Macy has coffee in a cemetery, tries to erase Charity’s memory by resorting to vandalism, and finds ways to push Harry away—but he isn’t going anywhere.

9 Cemetery Hill

_“I’m not a stranger/No I am yours/With crippled anger/And tears that still drip sore.” –“Cut” song by Plumb_

_Two Weeks and Two Days, 7 am, Autumn 1994, Cemetery Hill_

Sipping her dark roast coffee, Macy placed the biodegradable cup on the grass beneath her feet as she surveyed her grim surroundings, evergreens aplenty, unlike the recreational park’s forest, whose leaves had shed with the coming of the cool fall season. Her eyes flickered from amber-orange to brown and back again, as she glanced past the nearest curved rhodolite headstone to the chapel’s bulletin board, noticing fliers denoting the college’s name torn to shreds, placards and other signage torn off their faded hinges.

_Had she done that?_

She had been too caught up in her ire to tell, a common refrain as of late. The cubic mounds of uneven, spurious grass, separated by long moss-covered planks, shadowed by the towering tree branches overhead, served as her temporary retreat. From the moment she stepped foot within, she felt more… _purposeful?_ Her anger had still not abated, but there was a sort of targeted directness and a pull toward places she did not recall ever visiting, yet which lured her in nevertheless.

_“You can’t stay mad at me forever—”_

Macy recalled his most recent words. _Wanna bet?_ Her eyebrow arched as she reached for her coffee, relishing in its curlicued steam-puffed patterns that kissed her cheek, imagining for the briefest of moments she were Daenerys, Mother of Dragons, surrounded by a trio of winged flame and fury. _He robbed me of my agency. My ability to choose. He took me to his ex-lover’s lair—_

 _But what of it?_ Macy’s conscience prickled her. _He saved your life in the only way he knew how—and how does ‘choice’ matter if he nor you had none? He did all he possibly could in his duty as Whitelighter to the Charmed Ones—_

_By welcoming me into the spider’s nest of an ex-lover, long dead?_

Her fingers draped along a loose chain hovering above the damp soil, connecting one aged oaken beam to another equally decrepit around a marble pillar that towered above all of the others. Suspecting the surname carved upon its surface, she glanced over anyways.

_Callahan._

The loose chain twisted and contorted within her heated grasp, her eyes flashing amber, as her telekinesis yanked it free of its beams, catapulting itself upward javelin-like, through the forest’s uncovered space, hammering downward in its descent seconds later, birds fleeing in droves above the momentary chaos. Eyes shut, she waited for the inevitable _crash_ of the iron links and when that did not happen, opened them once more to find a familiar British gentleman waving it in her face. She screamed in frustration, her irises showing a glimmer of gold.

“Who do you think you are, Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley?” Ignoring Harry’s attempted joke, Macy flounced back to her cup of coffee, now cold, which she downed in a single gulp, turning to face him once more. “Macy, you ought to learn to be more careful,” he gently admonished, appealing to her better judgment. “The town’s abuzz with rumors of hordes of rabid, caffeinated squirrels—an angry banshee shrieking at 4 am—”

“You ought _not_ to tell me what to do—” she hissed, her eyes flashing. “ _So let them talk—”_

“Mace, this isn’t like you—” he began again.

“Neither is any of this—”

Harry paused. She _did_ have a point. “All I ask,” he stepped a few paces closer toward her form, “is that you exercise a bit more…what’s the word? Ah, yes. _Discretion._ ” Glancing at the chain in his hands and the pillared monument bearing the name “Callahan,” he put two and two together. “You can’t erase Charity by desecrating and defacing town property that bears her name—”

“Why not? She killed Marisol. And almost me—”

He sighed. “I remember, vividly. Trusting her in the end was nearly my own downfall as well.” Finding himself a couple feet away from his beloved, he made a further entreaty, though avoided touching her as a matter of self-preservation. “Be prudent. _Think_ —is this what Marisol would have wanted?” He noticed tears trickling down her cheeks as she hastily wiped them away with her scarf. “Is this what Mel and Maggie expect from their oldest sister? How will jail time for felony vandalism impact your legacy as a Charmed One?”

Rather than smother her with soft words and sweet nothings, he abruptly orbed away, leaving Macy to collect her thoughts amongst the darkened brambles and hillside evergreens.

_11:30 pm, Autumn 1994, Ambient Lounge_

He heard a sudden shift in movement, a click of the door lock and bolted upright in bed, finding the area next to his pillow vacant. _And oddly shielded._ Try as he might, he was unable to penetrate the invisible bubble surrounding her sleeping area on the mattress. _Seriously, Mace?_ He rose, noticing the soft glow of the kitchenette under-cabinet lighting as he drew nearer, spotting a small piece of paper on the walnut countertop. He recognized Macy’s handwriting instantly:

_Out for a jog. Back in an hour._

Perhaps she took his advice— _yes, that must be it_ —he told himself, settling himself back atop the mattress, willing his eyes to close to face another morning, away from the murky near-midnight abyss.

_2 am, Autumn 1994, Ambient Lounge_

Harry felt a sudden pressure about his side, as he fell off the bed to the wood floor mere inches below. _What the—?_ He massaged his temple, blinking as his eyes adjusted to the shadows and flickers of lamplight dancing across the frost glass window.

_Macy and her bubble._

Somehow, her magical prowess enabled her to create a shield of sorts, much like the one she’d designed to hold his amnesiac self before she wiped that blue sticky paint on his forehead. _Or attempted to, at least,_ recalling how it was Macy who was knocked unconscious instead, her memories of Dexter and Marisol and that karaoke incident dislodged in the process.

He shifted himself atop his side of the bed, gently shoving the barricade containing Macy further down until he was sure he wouldn’t find himself on the floor once more.

Recalling their kisses and embraces far earlier, he made as though to curl up to her form in an attempt at affection, reaching over with a hand, his forefinger angled _just so_ , to stroke her lovely visage—as he found himself prevented from doing so by what felt, by all accounts, like an invisible anti-magnetic, repellant force field.

 _“Please Mace,”_ he pleaded, a single tear falling down his cheek, splashing his cotton pillow beneath as he had an epiphany, his eyes widening, realizing the true depth and extent of her raw anguish at losing her mother, her sisters, her Vera Manor home, and agency, bereft of choice when there was none to be had—flee and live, or stay—and face swift demise—

_“Let me love you—"_

Removing his cotton shirt and plaid flannel pajama bottoms (clothed still by his boxers), exposing his bare shoulders, his chest, and more, he attempted to align himself to her curvaceous form to offer whatever physical comfort by way of spooning he could, in the only way he knew how.

_The force field refused to budge._

He continued gazing at her barricaded, slumbering form beside him. Knotted into a fetal position, her tresses enveloped her graceful, swan-like neck and sloping shoulders. _Even in her sleep, she was exquisite._

“ _I’m sorry_ ,” he whispered at last. “Oh gods, love, I’m so, _so_ sorry…I’ve behaved terribly…I’ve been a fool…I should’ve been open with you from the start—” never noticing the feminine visage hidden from his view, blinking rapidly in the darkness, absorbing every word he said.

_Two Weeks and Three Days, 11:59 pm, Autumn 1994, Ambient Lounge_

The next evening, regarding Macy’s sleeping form from the emerald chair across the room, he quietly admired her wild, silken curls, her elegant cheeks he loved to stroke so much, those lips of hers that often, in times past, had lured him into a wanton embrace that usually turned into more.

_3 am, Autumn 1994, Ambient Lounge_

“ _Talk to me—_ "

“LEAVE ME ALONE!” The invisible barricade continued in full force, her form firmly ensconced within.

“ _Please, Mace…please…please…”_ It was the third “please” that shattered her resolve. Harry swallowed hard, his fingers encircling the amniotic boundary separating himself from her. “I love you, and I will _never_ leave you—no matter what you do or say—"

“Leave me _alone_ — _leave me_ — _alone_ —” she began bawling, unable to stop, causing the invisible barricade to melt away as Harry reached out and cradled her in his arms, rocking her back and forth as her body shook, wracked with sobs, grieving for the life she had left behind.


	10. A Pensive Morning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Macy goes jogging in the cemetery, visits the local coffee shop, but finds her way back to Harry as she processes her predicament. Harry realizes he needs to feed her. She knows where and “when” she is, but wants to know why.

10 A Pensive Morning

_“Chances are only what we make them and all I need.” –“Chances” song by Five for Fighting_

_Two Weeks and Four Days, 6 am, Autumn 1994, Cemetery Hill_

She crossed the dark, empty street, jogging past the flickering lamplight above, eyes bloodshot from the past nights of mourning the life she no longer had, her innocence ripped away once more by a menace of disease that haunted her present, from which she hid in the past.

_Literally._

Finding the cement beneath her feet replaced by pliant soil and grassy mounds, her shoulders slackened, her fists unwinding from their cramped hold as she stopped for the briefest of moments to inhale a lungful of fresh, cool autumn air. She guessed by climate and foliage that she wasn’t in California or Nevada—no eternal sunshine, no palm trees, no arid desert—but she knew nothing besides of her environs.

_Perhaps it didn’t really matter._

Hearing a crow’s caw, her gaze directed itself upward to the towering tree branches that looked as though they were crone’s talons, clawing their way from their merciless hard-worn path toward the unattainable heavens. Seeing no human or animal, she resumed her steady pace, completing several laps around the resting place’s perimeter before heading to the local coffee shop.

_6:45 am, Autumn 1994, Coffee Shop_

The bell rang as Macy entered, causing the barista to turn his attention away from completing a customer’s fast-filling cappuccino order. Her hair, tied in a tight bun, revealed its texture through a single curly lock; her eyes, if he remembered correctly, had the oddest appearance, flickering from amber-orange to russet and back again. _Color-changing eyes. Hazel, perhaps._

“The usual?” he called out, knowing already it was a misnomer. The woman had stumbled into his 24-hour café mere days before, requesting several shots of cheap vodka with a chaser of locally-made espresso. He stared in concern as she rose from their ingestion, shocked she appeared coherently sober after it all. Just a couple of days after that, she had calmly strode in at the wee hours of the morning, craving a plain cup of coffee—no sugar, no sweetener, no… _nothing._

_Just a cup of coffee._

Catering to the collegiate crowd meant filling orders, each more complex than the next, of four splashes of dairy/non-dairy milk in a mocha no-foam taster-whip latte, as the Frappuccino had been invented earlier this year. Or a green tea concoction with fancy whipped cream and a hybrid layer of cacao and cocoa, plus a hint of nutmeg. Granted, the crowd had thinned out with the start of fall break—he had no right to anticipate the same folk out and about—but who on earth was this curious woman? He would have expected her, by the way she kept herself prim and put together in the subsequent days, to order the most complicated beverage of all, but no. _A simple cup of coffee._

 _Who are you?_ he wanted to ask. _Who are you, and where have you been?_

The woman gave a polite cough, jolting him out of his inner thoughts. “Just a cup of water, please.”

His brow furrowed. “No vodka? No coffee? Nothing?”

She laughed softly. “Not this time. Just a cup of water.”

_6:55 am, Autumn 1994, Coffee Shop_

Seating herself at the front-facing window seat, she began people-watching for the early risers with their pups of all sizes—chihuahuas, Dalmatians, and what she was fairly certain was a gargantuan St. Bernard, as they made their way past the shop, turning left toward the park.

_Was it easier to forgive?_

The thought popped into her mind as she sipped the cool hydrating beverage. Then she recalled how Charity had been a wolf in sheep’s clothing, fooling herself and her two younger sisters. How they had called upon Elder Bari, only for Charity to end her life, forcing Macy to relive the same day over and over—

Her palm brushed the area of her forehead where the thin metal had once been, that had reawakened the collective memories of turbulent times—namely, Marisol’s demise. The multiple sunrises, echoing her turns of amnesia, the clouds parting each time for a nefarious and never-ending sequence. The misplaced trust leading to a discomfiting sense of invasiveness impossible to ignore. She took another sip, slower this time, as the Elder Council came to mind, their blindingly bleached robes towering above them in the ceremonial chamber that secretly always reminded her of something out of Star Wars, and how they meted out Harry’s consequences, stripping him of his Whitelighter status, rendering him an aged man.

Far from being repulsed, she had found older Harry sweet and rather endearing, lap slanting downward, head slumping as he fell asleep in his favorite armchair, while she rescued the teacup about to fall from his weathered fingers.

_We’d make a cute old couple—_

_Say what?!_ She shook her head. _No. None of that nonsense._ She had to be practical, she knew, as she stared at a pair of passing French poodles, their owner tipping his beret her way. She had spent her entire life a studious schoolmarm, ending up with two new-to-her sisters—magical, no less—in a plot twist to beat all plot twists, learning she’d been lied to and by turns, finding herself lying to protect people she loved and cherished the most.

_Where to begin?_

_Everything I thought I knew…I don’t._

_Not anymore._

_Two Weeks and Five Days, 7 am, Autumn 1994, Coffee Shop to Cemetery Hill_

Remnants of their earlier conversation, Harry likening her to the famous female author of Frankenstein, entered her mind as she smiled slightly, rising from her seat to toss the cup in the bin, bidding farewell to the barista, the door chiming shut behind her as she made to cross the street one last time before returning to the ambient lounge and Harry, ignoring the lightheaded feeling indicating she hadn’t had a substantial breakfast in weeks—

_“LOOK OUT!”_

She barely registered the shout, the swift sharp breeze as a car sped past, nearly careening with her form. One second she was toeing the pavement, the next, prone on the concrete sidewalk, shielded by—

“ _Harry?”_ Macy recognized his arms, his broad form clad in a thick burgundy sweater. “What the— _what happened?”_

Panting, Harry looked both ways, before orbing themselves back to the ambient lounge.

_7:05 am, Autumn 1994, Ambient Lounge_

“EAT.” Harry shoved a full English breakfast her way, complete with sunny-side up eggs, pork sausages, baked beans, a blueberry scone, and a piping hot cup of coffee. “No charge of mine is going hypoglycemic on my watch.”

Scowling, Macy reached for the scone, tearing off a piece and dunking it in her coffee as Harry’s brows arched as high as they would go. _Dipping a scone in coffee (not tea)? Blasphemy!_ But he bit his tongue, noticing her angling her fork toward the runny egg, chewing slowly for the next few moments.

She secretly liked when he fed her. _Ordered her about,_ more like, in that impeccable British accent of his, but didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of knowing that, especially now. Swallowing another sip of coffee, she placed the cup down upon its accompanying saucer.

“Did it have to be _her_ college?” Macy found herself asking, meeting Harry’s eyes at last. He nodded as she grimaced. “Why did you bring me here? To your ex-lover’s college? You couldn’t find somewhere—I dunno—” she savagely sliced a pork sausage straight down the middle as Harry flinched ever-so-slightly. “Less… _charged?”_

Harry sighed. He knew the moment had arrived at last. “Mace, this was the safest place I knew, with magic strongholds powerful enough, and far back enough in time, to avoid detection by Scythe. And yes,” he added, “I do realize in retrospect how bringing a charge to my ‘dead ex-lover’s lair’ sounds—”

“Who tried to kill me—”

He massaged his temple. “I’m well aware—”

“Not to mention hiding the truth—”

“For two weeks whilst you recovered your emotional well-being over quarantine—but yes, _yes,_ I realize the error of my ways, and for that I am _truly_ sorry—"

She peered at him again, then took another sip of her coffee. _Hints of Charity were plastered all over this town._ From the oversized, larger-than-life statue decorating her namesake’s courtyard to Cemetery Hill’s marble pillar bearing her surname, not to mention the emerald upholstery, chandeliered parlors, study lounges emblazoned in elaborate crests and glittering gold trim.

“Why, Harry?” she found herself asking, her voice cracking. “Why _here?”_


	11. Standing in Love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Macy learns of a secondary spiritual nexus that channels love-based magic, texts her sisters for magical help, and receives sensual comfort from Harry.

11 Standing in Love

_“All we are we are/All we are we are.” –“All We Are” song by Matt Nathanson_

_Two Weeks and Five Days, 7:10 am, Autumn 1994, Ambient Lounge_

“Why, Harry?” she found herself asking, her voice cracking. “Why _here?”_

He sat in silence for some seconds, choosing his words carefully to avoid any semblance of ambiguity. “Vera Manor is founded upon a spiritual nexus. I assume you still recall what exactly that is?”

Her brows knitted together in confusion. _What did Vera Manor’s forces have to do with Callahan College?_ “Yeah, I do but what’s that got to do with—?”

“Everything, love, _everything.”_

From what Macy remembered, a spiritual nexus was a point of powerful energy equidistant from five mystical elements: earth, fire, wood, water, and metal, whose power could be swayed either way, for good or evil. “ _Wait—”_ she paused. “Are you saying this point—” she waved her arms about, indicating the lounge’s space, “is a _spiritual nexus?_ ”

Harry nodded. “Of a microcosmic sort.” He continued on, unsure of how she would react. “Of…a love catalyst variety.”

“A…a _love catalyst ‘spiritual nexus’?_ ” Macy exclaimed. _What the—?_

“I’m guessing you’ve never taken philosophy courses during your undergraduate studies, as you were busy with the sciences?” Harry prodded gently as she shook her head. “The eight forms of love are absorbed differently and affect us uniquely. They’re _philea_ (friendship), _pragma_ (long-term love), _storge_ (family), _eros_ (romance), _ludus_ (flirtation), _mania_ (jealousy), _philautia_ (self-respect), and finally, _agape_ (selfless love).”

“So…” Macy thought through each type of love in her mind. With Charity in the past, Harry had probably had some friendship, romance, flirtation, and jealousy—a weird combination but who ever said love was perfect? That left long-term love, family, self-respect, and selfless love. Harry being a Whitelighter seemed the most obvious example of selfless love, as he always protected and improved the lives of so many in his charge ( _or so she assumed_ ). “What about long-term love, family, and self-respect?”

His eyes met her own. “You, my darling, have always been the prime example of self-respect,” as she thought of the time Galvin had muttered a nasty comment and she retorted that he couldn’t speak to her that way, in so many words. He’d apologized soon after, if she recalled correctly.

“Family love?”

Harry smiled, walking toward the color-coordinated bookshelf, retrieving a heavy red book and carrying it back to Macy, opening it to reveal a CD in a hard plastic case embedded within. “Family,” he said simply. “On one of my visits to Marisol, she gave me this to hide until the time was right for you to listen.”

“To _her?_ She left a message for _me_?” Macy froze, thinking of all the missed recitals, missed competitions, missed school plays she begrudged her, not realizing it was due to a necromancer’s dealing in reviving her all those years ago.

“When you’re ready to listen—”

“No, Harry—” the words caught in her throat. “I—” she inhaled, then exhaled shakily. “I’ll listen soon—not now though. I’m not ready yet. You understand, don’t you?”

He silently acquiesced. “Of course, love.”

Macy counted down the types of love, realizing there was one remaining. “Long-term love,” she said at last.

“Ah yes, _pragma,_ a love in which both partners are equals, side-by-side. Not falling in love, but ‘standing in love,’” his gaze fixed upon her own smooth melanin visage. “Love magic is deeply misunderstood, grossly underestimated. But when done right, proves limitless and indestructible across the ages.”

“And that’s what shields me from Scythe?”

_“Precisely.”_

_Noon, Autumn 1994, Ambient Lounge_

After Macy placed a small chemistry set on the desk, setting up her makeshift magic-science post, she decided to go for a walk to see whether there were any fliers in a biochemistry hall somewhere, advertising for postdoctoral candidates.

All of this was new to her. No longer could she rest on her laurels, everyone assuming her brilliance by way of her Columbia Ph.D or her undergraduate diploma from NYU. Things were different now. If she were looking for a job in the present, she’d scour the online job sites, perhaps three or four, plastering her highly detailed CV for prospective academic recruiters to see. She’d monitor the site for clicks and views while, clutching her third cup of coffee, searching for additional gigs under various other keywords.

But then, a thought occurred to her. Or _two_ thoughts, her hand poised on the brassy doorknob.

One, she didn’t know how to magically influence an interview. _That was Maggie’s expertise._

Second, she needed a bigger table for the lounge. Or tables. One for dining, the other for her chemistry set.

Pulling out her phone, she sent off a pair of texts.

_Maggie, how do you influence an interview? LMK asap ~M_

and

_Mel, how do you make something larger? And what’s that duplication charm again?_

She waited a minute and a minute more, tapping her polished nails on the walnut countertop, before realizing there was a few hours’ time difference between this locale and Seattle.

_4 pm, Autumn 1994, Ambient Lounge_

Her phone buzzed, her fingers fumbling to unlock it.

 _How to influence an interview: …_ Macy grinned, as it was exactly what she was looking for.

Another vibration emanated. _Mel._

 _Duplication spell: …_ and

_Enlargement spell: ask Maggie_

Macy sighed. Whether or not Mel knew it, she sounded rather terse in her communications. But then again, she herself wasn’t especially talkative either.

_4:05 pm, Autumn 1994, Ambient Lounge_

_Maggie, how do you make something larger? Mel said to ask you?_

She turned her phone down upon the walnut countertop as she unrolled her yoga mat onto the floor beneath her. _Namaste._ Macy drew herself into a cross-legged position, each outstretched palm beckoning toward the bluest of blue skies as she closed her eyes, imagining herself anywhere but here…

_9:15 pm, Autumn 1994, Ambient Lounge_

Attempting a journal entry by lamplight, Macy’s pensive musings were interrupted by her phone yet again. Reaching an outstretched arm from her seated position, the device fell off the corner of the counter, zooming into her right hand. _Telekinesis: 1,_ she thought to herself, opening her messages once more.

_Sorry, busy fighting a rogue centaur. Just got back. Are you making some*ONE* or some*THING* larger? ;P ;P ;P ;P -mags_

_Seriously?_ Macy rolled her eyes. _I don’t have time for this._

 _Mags, I’m serious,_ she typed back. _I need a bigger table for my chemistry set. And another to eat off of._

 _Yeah ok,_ the reply came seconds later. _Srsly if Jordan & I were stuck there we’d be going at it like—_

 _MAGS! Boundaries!_ Macy’s fingers swept over the keypad.

 _Ugggggg fine…._ the response was near-instantaneous.

“What’re you doing?” Startled, Macy jumped, her phone flying into the air as Harry orbed above, catching it, disappearing, then reappearing feet away from where Macy stood.

“N-nothing—” Macy felt herself blush a deep puce as they drew closer, Harry’s eyes skimming the remnants of Maggie’s conversation.

“That doesn’t seem like… _nothing…_ ” he murmured, reaching out to stroke her curls as she gave an involuntary shiver. “You know very well how I feel about you. And besides, Charity’s long gone—”

“Really?” she inquired despite herself. “Where is she?”

“If I recall my timeline correctly, busy volunteering in Southeast Asia and doing her annual fundraising galas abroad besides. _In Hong Kong, I think._ She won’t be back till late next year, by which time we’ll be gone—” _to Vera Manor,_ the last phrase unspoken, hung in the air between them.

“Hopefully.”

“And, from your sister’s communications—” he bent forward, burying his nose in her tresses, kissing her neck as she squirmed with sensual delight, “I must ask—”

“Hmmmmm?” Her lips met his, her back striking the countertop as he lifted her atop, continuing his heady movements as she straddled his muscular form.

“What on _earth_ are you using that enlargement spell for?”

She laughed, her lips colliding with his once more, her fingertips stroking his thick chestnut hair. “Nothing that concerns _you_.” Seeing his questioning glance, she clarified. “A dining table and a sizable chemistry desk, if you must know.”

“That sounds simply _lovely,”_ he murmured low, his grip growing tighter, as they resumed their amorous lavishings with increased ferocity, distant lamplight glowing as two souls, traveling long into the night, found solace within each other once more.


	12. Margarita in the New Year

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Flashback (or forward?) to when Marisol receives an email from Dexter, ultimately fulfilling a vision of her third child Maggie, not yet born.

12 Margarita in the New Year

_“And every day is a start of something beautiful.” –“All We Are” song by Matt Nathanson_

_4 pm, One Week Before New Year’s Eve, Early 2000s, Living Room, Vera Manor_

“Ray isn’t going to come home, is he?” as tears fell upon her alabaster cheeks.

Harry shook his head, trying his best to observe Whitelighter decorum in front of his Elder. “I’m afraid not.” He couldn’t bear to see Marisol like this, knowing she had already endured immeasurable sorrow. In an effort to aid beyond what his own capabilities could provide, he had directed her to Charity, a fellow Elder entrusted with removing whatever raw pain remained.

He always wondered, with Marisol’s prophetic abilities, why she would ever want to confide in _him._ Perhaps her skillset only took her so far, being able to see the future, but not in as cohesive an order as she wished? But he brushed the thought aside, taking another sip of his Earl Grey tea, fixed by Marisol with a splash of cream and a half teaspoon of sugar.

“This doesn’t make sense…” she murmured, half to herself as she stared at the dregs of her teacup. “This doesn’t make any sense at all…”

_8 pm, Three Days Before New Year’s Eve, Early 2000s, Attic, Vera Manor_

She found herself pacing the knobbed, cobweb-strewn floorboards of Vera Manor’s attic, Egyptian Tarawet texts strewn on the table alongside Greek tracts of the voluptuous marbled Aphrodite with her honeyed flowing locks. Frantically perusing and reviewing what she knew of fertility gods and goddesses amidst the ancient tomes, she heard the attic door creak open—

“Mommy?”

She dashed over to the little girl. “Mellie, you’re supposed to be asleep!”

The child shook her head. “I wanna be awake for New Year’s!”

Marisol laughed aloud as she gathered her daughter in her arms, closing the attic door behind them as she carried her back to her bedroom. “Silly, New Year’s Eve’s not for another three days!”

“Waiting should be illegal!” the girl exclaimed as Marisol gave her an amused look.

“Sweetie, have you been watching Law & Order reruns again?”

She heard a vague mumbling against her shoulder as the girl nodded. “ _I like Captain Olivia.”_

Marisol stroked her daughter’s lovely dark hair as she laid her back in bed, tucking the covers around the child. “I know you do, sweetie, I know,”

_10 pm, Two Days Before New Year’s Eve, Early 2000s, Kitchen, Vera Manor_

_Ping._ One new message.

She checked her email messages regularly, using her spam folder to filter, and eventually cease, familial communication. How did this message escape?

Curious, she hovered over the email header, which had emerged by way of a corporate address. Not recognizing the name, she tilted her head, puzzled. _Delete or spam?_ Marisol briefly wondered, before taking a chance and clicking on the link itself, opening the email’s contents.

Inhaling sharply, she recognized its sender.

_Dexter._

Her eyes skimmed his written text. Old-school at heart, he never seemed one for modern technology, but he often found ways to surprise even her.

 _I miss you,_ it read. _I’m in town for business over New Year’s. I’d love to see you again. Can I stop by?_

_-DV_

Every fiber of her being told her this was a terrible, awful idea, seeing someone she was forced to part with through necromancer’s curse. Things like this, she knew quite well, generally led to other unintended consequences spilling forth, whether it be by way of passion, grief, or an agonizing demise. Ordinarily, she would have curtly suggested sticking to handwritten letters of Macy’s progress, and nothing more—but the emptiness within triggered by Ray’s abandonment left her vulnerable, aching, hungry for company.

Before she realized what was happening, her fingers began typing of their own accord.

_Yes. I’d love to see you too._

_-MV_

And… _sent._

She buried her face in her arms along the kitchen counter, realizing she had set in motion a string of events that could very well mean the end of her marriage _._

 _Oh no—_ she groaned.

_What have I done?_

_11 pm, New Year’s Eve, Early 2000s, Vera Manor_

She checked herself in the mirror once more, before making sure Mellie was fast asleep in her bedroom. Once those tasks were complete, she walked down the stairs, avoiding the one creaky step, finding herself at the entryway of Vera Manor. Feeling conspiratorial, she peered through the blinds, spotting a tall figure approaching the front doorstep, opening the door to avoid Mellie being awoken by the doorbell.

_11:01 pm, New Year’s Eve, Early 2000s, Vera Manor_

She stared at him, taking in his handsome hue, his musculature, his sweet eyes, and the sensation of his protective soul piercing into her very own. “I…” her voice shook as tears sprang from her eyes. At a loss for words, she attempted to speak once more. “I-I’ve missed you, so very, very much—” as he raced up the steps, enveloping her in his arms.

“ _Oh, Soley_ ,” he murmured, his nickname for her, for she was his sun, his _soleil_ to his moon, the stars to his sky, the constellations of his galaxy forthwith, as he had written her, time and time again. “ _I’ve missed you too.”_

_11:15 pm, New Year’s Eve, Early 2000s, Vera Manor_

Their conversation continued under Vera Manor’s trellised tea lights in the back garden as they made a makeshift miniature bonfire using a single Bunsen burner, roasting marshmallows and making s’mores under the light of the moon. Their earlier romantic overtures hearkening to their back-and-forth letters settled into a comfortable, though slightly awkward stillness. _Was this how two star-crossed lovers reunited?_

“Do you wish you never met me?” Marisol finally broke the silence, blowing on her browning marshmallow.

“ _Never for a second.”_ She raised her visage toward his, noting his fiery gaze.

“Things could’ve been different—” she began. “You could’ve had a wife every day, not once in a blue moon. More kids, even—”

Dexter shook his head. “It wouldn’t have been the same; you and I both know that.” Sandwiching his marshmallow between two graham crackers (foregoing the chocolate altogether), he took a muffled bite. “As for kids, I’m one and done. Been researching boarding schools, tuition alone’s—” he glanced back at Marisol’s pale visage. “Sorry, it’s just the disciplinarian in me. Macy’s real smart, she’ll go places—”

“I know. She…” Marisol tried not to tear up as she put her marshmallow and chocolate between two crackers, chewing and taking a slow swallow before continuing. “She sounds _amazing._ ”

“My dear, she takes after you,” he replied, placing his plate on the table next to hers.

_11:40 pm, New Year’s Eve, Early 2000s, Vera Manor_

“What if you…or we…had more kids?” Marisol broached the subject, as crazy as it were. _Perhaps it was that margarita mixture they’d sipped some time before? The one she’d used that glamour potion on?_

Resignedly, Dexter shook his head with a sad smile. “Soley, you know that’s not possible—”

“I know, I was just…”

“Thinking?” Dexter finished Marisol’s sentence.

“Yeah,” she blinked, several times, turning her visage skyward, blurry visions of tea lights dancing before her.

“You know, not everyone has a perfect happily-ever-after. Princess Ann and Joe Bradley have a whirlwind romance, but in the end—” he reached over to stroke her cheek as her eyes closed, savoring his touch.

“She ascends the throne—” Marisol recalled Audrey Hepburn’s “Roman Holiday” film.

“—And he returns to his commoner life in America,” stated Dexter. “But we’ll always have Macy, won’t we?”

“Yes,” Marisol murmured as their hands clasped the others’ in the shimmering garden, a beacon of light amidst the shadows of yore as she stared into the abyss. “ _We’ll always have Macy_.”

_12:15 am, New Year’s Eve, Early 2000s, Vera Manor_

Their cheery voices echoed in the airy confines of the manor, holiday glasses clinking into the kitchen sink as they cleaned up all traces of Dexter’s presence, lest any awkward questions arise the following morning. Holding hands, they found themselves embracing once more at the foot of the stairs; expecting Marisol to depart upstairs, Dexter was surprised when he felt a tugging sensation, realizing that she wanted him to join her.

Eyebrows raised, he tilted his head. _Are you sure?_ She nodded. “ _Please_ Dex,” her figure poised a couple of rungs above him. “Just give me tonight. _Please?”_

It was the second ‘please’ that convinced him, as he trailed after her, murmuring sweet nothings as they stumbled into her bedroom, Marisol locking the door behind them. Sensually embracing once more, her walls thrummed as they ascended rapidly into sultry connubial bliss.

_Two Weeks and Six Days, 9 am, Autumn 1994, Ambient Lounge_

Macy woke up to find herself the little spoon within Harry’s heady embrace as hints of goldenrod sunlight burst into the confines of the ambient lounge. “I’m ready,” she said aloud as Harry began to stir.

“Ready?” Harry rubbed his eyes and yawned.

“To hear Marisol’s CD.”

_9:30 am, Autumn 1994, Ambient Lounge_

Sipping from her cup of dark roast coffee, she inserted the disc into her laptop, unmuting and adjusting the volume. And suddenly, Marisol’s voice could be heard—

“If you’re hearing this, I’m no longer alive. Macy, my darling, Harry Greenwood is a true friend who watched over our Vera-Vaughn family for years. For all his mistakes and blunders ( _Harry grimaced at this),_ he has a lion’s heart…and speaking of hearts, let him into yours.” Pausing the recording, Harry and Macy looked at each other.

“Did she say what I think she’s saying?” Macy asked.

“In all likelihood, knowing Marisol, probably—” Harry mused.

“Just asking,” she hastily added. “I like your heart—” she all but stammered.

“And I yours—” Harry placed his hand over Macy’s as they pressed the _play_ button to resume the recording.

“I sense a shadow of pestilence; your only hope is forming a united front using Harry’s steadfast guidance to strengthen the Power of Three, the Charmed One triquetra. I-I’m sorry I was never there in person for your achievements Macy, but your father kept me informed. I’m so, _so_ proud of the woman you’ve become by now, opening your heart to your sisters. I hope you will continue to do the same for Harry.”

The recording ended, the ambient lounge silent as Harry and Macy contemplated how to best build their lives anew to defeat the forces of evil. _For,_ Macy told herself, _tomorrow would be a better day._


	13. Of Birds and Biochemistry

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The crow makes an appearance; Macy gets a job as scientist at Callahan College and Harry is concerned for her safety.

13 Of Birds and Biochemistry

_“Current of energy/I hide it away and underneath/Lock the door/I shake, I promise everyday/To change” –“On the Floor” song by Perfume Genius_

_9:30 am, Autumn 1994, Ambient Lounge_

The recording ended, the ambient lounge silent as Harry and Macy contemplated how to best build their lives anew to defeat the forces of evil. _For,_ Macy told herself, _tomorrow would be a better day._

_Three Weeks, Next Morning, 8 am, Autumn 1994, Basement, Biochemistry Building to Office_

The crow wheedled its way through an open slat, escaping the October gusts threatening to pummel the creature against the needling branches of the gnarled oak tree. Brushing its feathers as one might do a dusty jacket, the bird surveyed its miasmic surroundings—a dank basement filled with forgotten test tubes—its aviary shadows becoming humanoid once more. Upon transformation, she tied her silvery hair in a bun, donned her lab coat and shoes, and glided soundlessly down the darkened hall to her upstairs office, a veritable closet adjoining the windowed university biochemistry laboratory.

_8:30 am, Autumn 1994, Biochemistry Office_

Before she could take a sip of her chicory coffee, she heard a knock. Placing her mug atop a blackbird-themed coaster, she strode the short distance, opening the door to reveal a certain young witch whose hands, she noticed, were shaking ever-so-slightly against what she assumed was her CV (or resume, _who knew what it was called these days…_ ).

_I’ve been expecting you._

Their eyes met as she stepped into the compact office space, which was oddly blackbird-themed and filled to the gills with bottled herbs and various smoking substances.

_I know who you are._

Turning around, Macy gave a start at the older woman’s piercing stare. “Um,” she hesitated. “H-have we met before?”

_You replaced my daughter._

“Well, in a matter of speaking… _no._ Though you do remind me of someone I used to know,” the older woman replied, closing the door behind her.

_8:34 am, Autumn 1994, Biochemistry Office_

“Your office looks…” Macy’s voice trailed off. _Special? Eclectic?_ “…cool?”

“I’m assuming you came here for something other than my decorative style. What do you need?”

“Oh—right—yeah—um—” Macy handed the woman her resume. “I’m applying for a job with your laboratory—”

The older lady reached for her bifocals, staring down at Macy’s list of admittedly spectacular qualifications. “We didn’t post any openings—”

“Yeah,” Macy took a deep breath, to avoid rambling. “I know—”

“And you’re certainly overqualified—”

“Yes, I realize that—” Macy’s fingers fumbled for the post-it note containing Maggie’s interview spell.

“Oh, and don’t bother, I’ve seen it all,” the woman motioned to Macy’s pocket containing her scrawled notes.

“Wait, _what?”_ Now Macy was confused. “You’re a—?”

The silver-haired woman nodded. “And a damn good one too, if I may toot my own horn.”

_8:50 am, Autumn 1994, Biochemistry Office_

“Right, um…” she picked at her cuticles. This interview certainly wasn’t going according to plan. Perhaps it could be salvaged? “I recently moved and I’d like to apply my skillset in your laboratory.”

“What else?”

 _What else?_ Macy wracked her brain for ideas for the next couple of seconds. “Well…I pipette like a boss, run a tight ship, and have zero tolerance for disrespect.”

“Hm, my kind of woman,” the older woman walked around her, examining her closely before halting in her tracks. “Ok.”

“Ok?”

“You’ve got the job.”

“I, uh, do?” Macy tilted her head, brow furrowed in disbelief. _Was this really happening?_

“Yes. I run a tight ship. Know it won’t be easy. And I do my best to separate the wheat from the chaff, _if you get my drift_.”

“Got it, doctor…?” _Whoops, Macy, you didn’t bother to figure out the lady’s name? Really?_

The older lady offered her hand. “The name’s Cora. _Cora Callahan_.”

_9:45 am, Autumn 1994, Hallway to Ambient Lounge_

The one downside to the biochemistry job was having to hike clear across campus at the wee hours of the morning. Despite that, she was glad to have renewed purpose in her life from a professional perspective, as she positively skipped down the dimmed cerulean hallway, uttering enchantments to re-enter the ambient lounge.

_9:58 am, Autumn 1994, Ambient Lounge_

“I assume the interview went well?” She heard a familiar British lilt. _Harry._ She dashed over, hugging him from behind.

“I got the job!”

“Oh Macy, that’s _splendid!”_ he exclaimed, turning around for a tenuous embrace, as he held a spatula, mid-way through frying eggs for a late breakfast.

_10:15 am, Autumn 1994, Ambient Lounge_

“Yeah…about that…” Macy began after they had both come down from their initial burst of joy. “There’s good news and bad news. Which first?” as she dipped a forkful of egg into a bit of ketchup.

Harry mulled this over. “Good first, I do enjoy starting the day on a high note.”

“Ok, so, good news: new job at lab so I can access more chemicals and solve this Scythe thing.”

“And the bad news?”

“Well…” Macy paused. _Was it bad news if the woman’s last name was Callahan? Probably._ “My boss’ last name is Callahan—” as Harry’s mouth dropped open, his fork clattering to the ground, picked up millimeters before thanks to her telekinesis.

_10:20 am, Autumn 1994, Ambient Lounge_

“Mace,” he uttered cautiously. “I’d think twice before working for this Dr. Cora Callahan—”

“Harry, I get it, you’re worried, but seriously, I got this—”

“The last time you dealt with a Callahan, your memory was erased several days straight and you almost died. _I can’t lose you again._ ” His hand clasped hers. “ _Please,_ Macy, I’m _begging_ you—”

It was downright infuriating, the way he coddled her sometimes. “ _Harry._ ” She gave him a pointed look. “I’m a big girl, I can take care of myself—”

“But her family—” he interjected.

“Do you know Cora personally?” Macy asked as Harry shook her head.

“I have not yet had the misfortune, no—”

“So she could be different, right?”

“I highly doubt that—”

“Ok, but worst case scenario, I still need supplies to defeat Scythe, and the only location with enough magical biohazard material to do that is this lab.”

Harry thought this over before replying. “Understood, love. But please, _please_ , do be careful.” He reached forward, kissing the top of Macy’s forehead, silently stroking her curls as he inhaled her cinnamon-apple scent, wondering if he’d made a mistake in bringing her here.


	14. Sage and Stinging Nettle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Macy starts her job as a scientist under Charity’s mother, Dr. Cora Callahan, sustaining a minor injury while subject to Cora’s possible psychological manipulation. Inspired by an early scene in "Age Before Beauty."

14 Sage and Stinging Nettle

_“Meet me in the middle of your story when the soul is worn but wise.” -Angie Weiland-Crosby_

_8 am, Autumn 1994, Biochemistry Lab, Next to Office_

_You replaced my daughter._

The thought lingered in her mind as Dr. Cora Callahan surveyed the blanched, macrobiotically-clean open-air workspaces, sunlight spilling through windows in planked form, creating illusory ladder-like shadows upon the glossy linoleum. Rotating faux leather stools, 1980s-style cobalt-handled plasticine desk drawers, upper shelves whose angled interiors offered a secondary fluorescent light source.

She sighed; she knew much of their equipment required updating, but funding was lower than usual this year, and they were already a couple years behind other colleges in their genomic sequencing processes. Bringing in her daughter’s frenemy wasn’t what she initially had in mind, but at this point, she was willing to try anything. _And hey, two birds, one stone, as the adage went…right?_

_8:01 am, Autumn 1994, Biochemistry Lab_

Cora heard a flurry of movement behind her. “ _You’re late—”_

“Sorry,” panted Macy, rushing forward carrying a medium-large purse containing her postdoctoral notes, a makeshift lunch (and ice brick)…and several bundles of sage, per Harry’s instruction. “Only by a minute?” she offered. “I got lost—”

“Not an excuse,” replied Cora brusquely. “I expect all scientists to arrive promptly at 8 am. And as the saying goes, if you’re on time, you’re late. And if you’re early, you’re on time.”

“Er, _right—”_ Macy stared at the workbenches before her, taking stock of just _how_ antiquated the early 1990s had been compared to the 2000s. _Or was it just Callahan College?_

“I hope you can acclimate to our laboratory? It’s just one compact room, but as Shakespeare’s Helena once said, ‘though she be but little…’”

“…She is fierce.” Macy bit back a smile as she set her bag down beside one of the rotating stools. Her classics education at boarding school was beginning to pay off in weird unforeseen ways. “So, uh,” she looked around, noticing a lack of other scientists, lab assistants, contractors, and the like. “Where’s everyone else?”

“It’s fall break—and Dima’s in Ukraine so you won’t meet him till later—assuming he decides to come back,” she gave a sardonic smile which made Macy somewhat nervous; it was impossible to know what to expect from this aged woman. “That won’t be a problem, will it?” Cora peered down her glasses at Macy.

“N-no,” Macy stammered, before clearing her throat. “I mean, Dr. Callahan, I’m used to independent study. This is…definitely doable.”

“Good. Your first assignment is to brew me a _ferrous_ cement potion by close of business today.”

“A _ferrous—_?" Macy pored through her mental rolodex of Latinate terms. “As in…iron?” The woman nodded.

“It seems a lamppost has been uprooted recently, chipping the nose off a certain marble statue in the courtyard, bearing Charity Callahan’s likeness. Wouldn’t happen to know anything about _that,_ would you?”

 _Shit, busted._ “Errr….” Macy avoided the woman’s pointed gaze, choosing instead to rummage through her purse.

Cora turned to leave. “ _Whatever—_ just have it on my desk by 4. Consider this a test.”

_3 pm, Autumn 1994, Biochemistry Lab_

Wiping the perspiration dotted across her brow, Macy glanced at the sticky viscous substance canistered before her.

_Cyanoacrylate glue._

Researching the ingredients had been easy enough: ethyl cyanoacetate, formaldehyde, nitrogen, free radical inhibitors, and base scavengers. Creating the compound, on the other hand, had been a painstakingly laborious process.

Over the course of several long hours, she’d placed the initial ethyl cyanoacetate in a heated glass-lined kettle per the online instructions surreptitiously hidden from view, immediately pouring the nitrogen in to avoid condensation and any resultant hardening. She stirred the substance until the heat reached 305 degrees Fahrenheit, with impurities removed by way of the inhibitors and scavenger elemental ingredients.

 _Help me,_ she texted Mel. _New job_ (she included a test tube emoji). _Gluing a lamp post together. Got glue, need magic—_

“Everything ok in there?” Dr. Callahan called out from the doorway.

“Yup, fine, absolutely fine—” Macy replied, praying to every known deity Mel would respond in time as Cora departed for her second cup of chicory coffee that day, realizing now would be a perfect time to take a five minute break, not to mention do some sage rubbing.

_3:15 pm, Autumn 1994, Biochemistry Lab_

Hearing the tell-tale buzz, Macy checked her phone. _Mel._ Checking the text against an online translation, Macy recited the ancient Latin text: _solidum lapis, solidum ferro, viribus trium, totius solus._

_Here goes nothing._

She waited two, three, five seconds—nothing happened. _Did it work?_ Usually, there was a _bang_ or a spirited rose or violet cloud of smoke. Putting her fingers together, she weighed her options, before deciding to text Mel again.

_It’s not working. -Macy_

Macy searched around the chamber for clues. Bottled substances of every which type lined the upper shelves, much like an herbal apothecary. Her side pocket vibrated again. _You added the stinging nettle, right? -Mel_

 _Right. The stinging nettle._ Macy searched the shelves before finding the corresponding label, uncorking it and adding a pinch to the sticky substance. And a second pinch, just in case, before stirring and sealing the compound. Not one to cut corners, she meticulously corked the nettle, placing it back where it had been earlier, before cleaning her workspace, forgetting she’d dropped a microgram of stinging nettle, her wrist brushing up against it, its veritable fiberglass sharded hooks attaching to her skin as she yelped in agony—

 _Fuck….fuck…fuck…_ she grimaced, racing to the aluminum sink, where she spent the next several minutes drenching her hand in cool, crisp distilled water, before attempting to apply liquid soap, which caused her to shriek even more.

_3:50 pm, Autumn 1994, Biochemistry Lab_

After more rinsing, her hand finally absolved itself of pain, though there was a certain lingering soreness. _Occupational hazards, amirite?_ she thought to herself, glancing at the canister set aside for Dr. Callahan’s examination, wondering what on earth Harry would think if he saw her right now. He’d probably be desperate to heal her, mixed in with a bit of horrified and appalled. He wouldn’t want her to work in the laboratory anymore, for fear of additional injury.

_4:02 pm, Autumn 1994, Biochemistry Lab_

“Very good, very good, Macy,” Cora remarked, testing her compound using a glass syringe against a ferrous alloy, which melded together instantly, causing Macy to grin despite her discomfort. “What have you done with your hand?”

“Oh, um,” Macy started. “Hand brushed against nettle while I cleaned up—”

“Rookie mistake, hm?” Cora surveyed Macy closely.

“Won’t happen again, Dr. Callahan.”

“Please, Macy—we’re colleagues now. Call me Cora. And I suggest you come with me, I have something for that plant burn—”

_4:15 pm, Autumn 1994, Biochemistry Office_

“Thanks,” Macy said, as Cora applied a layer of aloe vera coupled with antibacterial lotion, sealed with a cloth bandage of sorts.

“It’s the least I could do, you having the chutzpah to walk in here and apply your skills…which begs me to ask—why did you move here?” Cora fixed her stare upon the younger woman seated before her, separated only by her own office desk.

Macy sucked her breath in sharply. “Er…” she hesitated. “For…someone I care about.” _Which wasn’t exactly untrue…_

“How old is he?” Cora reached for her chicory coffee, taking a single sip.

“Sorry?”

“I said, _how old is he?_ ”

“Oh, um. In his late thirties…?” _Again, not entirely un-true,_ Macy thought to herself, noticing Cora hadn’t offered her a cup of chicory coffee. But how much could she trust an older witch whose experiment injured her, albeit inadvertently?

“Child, I wasn’t born yesterday—”

“Ok, he’s older. By a lot. And it’s complicated.”

“Really?” Cora wondered how much Macy would be willing to disclose in the confines of the office. “How so?”

“He’s…he’s got a girlfriend, in this time at least. But from when—I mean— _where_ I’m from, I’m his girlfriend.”

“So he leads a double life? The scoundrel—”

“Like I said,” Macy bit her lip. “It’s complicated. I mean…I never thought I’d be _that_ girl, y’know? I’m smart, people say I have a strong head on my shoulders—” She stopped, knowing she was beginning to ramble.

“Do you know the other woman?”

Macy chose her words carefully. “Yes and no. I know _of_ her, in certain ways,” unsure of how to tell Cora a relative of hers had given her forcible amnesia, done away with Marisol, and gone on a rampage besides. “She was very beautiful, and powerful too. But something made him wander away.”

“Oh? Like what?” This, Cora was especially keen to hear, no matter how difficult it would be.

“Perhaps she was conniving, shrewdish. Maybe she didn’t pay him enough attention. Or something happened. I have no idea what. I know I shouldn’t speculate—” she spoke haltingly. “All I know is, I fell for him. And now I’m here. In 1994. Don’t get me wrong, Dr. C—I mean— _Cora,_ I know he and I are lucky to be healthy, let alone alive—but this isn’t what I ever wanted.” She blinked quickly. “To be at the college founded by his other lover, I mean—”

“Dear,” Cora leaned close to Macy across from her desk. “You could do _so_ much better than him. If I didn’t know any better, I’d think him trying to sow his oats, get a twofer, _if you get what I mean._ ”

 _You’re wrong,_ Macy thought, her eyebrow raised. _And who are you to tell me about love?_

_5:20 pm, Autumn 1994, Ambient Lounge_

“Lamb chops with mint sauce, a side of arugula—good heavens, _what happened to your hand?”_ Harry exclaimed, yanking Macy’s hand close for further examination. Turning his attention away from the plated delectables, he attempted to apply his Whitelighter magic to her…his brow knitted together in frustration, finding himself unable to heal her affliction.

“Harry— _Harry!”_ she pulled her hand away. “It won’t work.”

“Why not? Surely a move of my hand—”

Macy shook her head. “A lab injury. Technically self-inflicted, since I was cleaning up my workstation—so no, Harry. This one needs to heal on its own. Though if you have aloe vera ointments that’d be _awesome—?_ "

“Of course, love. I’ll pop by the bodega. Also—I really _must_ accompany you to work tomorrow. I don’t trust this Cora woman—that plant burn’s tiny—but _ghastly—_ ”

“Nonononoooo….” Macy replied quickly. “I’m fine. _I swear.”_

“Are you absolutely certain?” He moved closer, tucking a curly lock behind her ear as they embraced, inches away from the walnut countertop.

Macy nodded. “Positive.” She knew her working was their only reliable source of income, and the sole way of finding an end to Scythe. _But did it really have to be with Charity’s mother?_ She shook her head, as if trying to free herself of those overwhelming thoughts.

_Harry made a delicious dinner._

_He worships the ground I walk on._

_He loves me. And only me._

_Right?_


	15. A Pair of Pumpkins

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Macy continues her job as a scientist under Charity’s mother, Cora, who tells her of a secret compartment in a desk containing suggestive literature. Harry and Macy quietly celebrate the fall season.

15 A Pair of Pumpkins

_“Where are you going/With your long face/Pullin’ down/Don’t hide away,/Like an ocean/That you can’t see…” –“Where Are You Going” song by Dave Matthews Band_

_8 am, Several Days Later, Three-and-a-Half Weeks In, Autumn 1994, Biochemistry Lab_

_You replaced my daughter. But you seem like a lost soul._

_Are you a good witch or a bad witch?_

That last thought lingered in her mind as Dr. Cora Callahan gazed at Macy from the doorway, the latter at her workbench experimenting with aloe vera essence employed the afternoon before, in an effort to study their metabolic effects on the magical and/or otherwise human body.

Cora imagined, for a moment, the deafening screams of human torment. _Macy’s_. The woman who had come between her sylph of a daughter, and her paramour, Harry Greenwood. Perhaps the bottled stinging nettle could have been more poisonous. _Much_ more venomous. But Cora wasn’t stupid; she had also seen her daughter’s backhanded behavior. Whenever slighted, her golden child devolved into cougar vindictiveness in the name of what she termed ‘justice’—her keenly-felt desire to mete out consequences, though unwilling to face her own. Cora knew this all too well, having kept a close eye on her daughter over many decades.

_Are you evil?_

_8:15 am, Autumn 1994, Biochemistry Lab_

Macy had the oddest sensation she was being stared at, but stubbornly continued pipetting various gelatinous substances into a series of substrate tubes, hoping she would be able to generate a means to defeat Scythe. _Eventually._

She had compiled a list earlier, of common forms of gelatin. _Isinglass. Carageen. Agar/Kanten. Pectin._

_8:19 am, Autumn 1994, Biochemistry Lab_

“I take it you’ve decided on your topic?” Cora called out from the doorway, discussing Macy’s independent project mentioned in passing during the interview.

Removing her goggles and latex gloves, Macy turned to the woman and nodded. “Evaluation of the metabolic effects of gelatin capsules,” she said quickly. “Basically, I’m studying how different types of gelatin affect a body.” _Without referencing, specifically, Scythe’s body._

“Hm, alternate vehicles of medication management,” Cora said with a tilt of her head. “ _Proceed._ ”

_8:25 am, Autumn 1994, Biochemistry Lab_

Macy uttered a sigh of relief once Cora departed. Typically, she would have opted for her usual genetics experimentation as in Hilltowne, but given the human genome hadn’t even been mapped yet, that was incredibly risky from a time traveler’s perspective. It would attract too much attention. And even though she was a young talented expert, she knew she was no Stephen Hawking— _yet—_ at least for now.

She took trace amounts of her experimental substances, sweeping them into tiny containers and stowing them in an enchanted hidden compartment within her purse, for her to work on in the evening. There wasn’t enough though, she knew, which meant she needed to reach out to Mel.

 _Any Scythe ingredients?_ Macy texted. _I need isinglass, carageen, agar (kanten), and pectin. And lab supplies. And…_ She tried not to make the list too long, knowing her sister was working late hours at the bar. Once she was satisfied with her writing, she sent off the request.

_Noon, Autumn 1994, Biochemistry Lab_

Macy made as though to go for a quick coffee run to obtain much-needed caffeine. Checking her phone, she sighed, realizing the only coffee shop she knew of was clear across campus, across from the cemetery.

“Have you tried the one in the tunnel?”

Macy gave a start, realizing Cora was mere feet away. _How had the woman snuck up on her like that? Did she wear felt on her high heels?_ “The…” she hesitated. “Tunnel?”

“Down here,” Cora motioned in the direction of the darkened hallway. “Follow me—”

“Err…ok!”

_12:30 pm, Autumn 1994, Underground Café_

“Underground and “ground” coffee, clever,” Macy remarked as the two sat across a booth, sipping their respective coffee. Oddly, the booth resembled the desk back at the ambient lounge, in its depth, color, size, and shape. “Are these repurposed desks?”

“Oh, that,” Cora laughed with a wave of her hand—Macy noticed she wore a black-colored ring with— _blackbird or crow’s wings?_ Macy shook her head. Surely she was being paranoid. Of _course_ she was being paranoid. “It was the founder’s idea, you knew her in some respect too—bohemian with a certain glittery Baroque flair.”

“Does she have desks like this repurposed…elsewhere?” She found herself asking the question despite herself.

Cora nodded. “Don’t tell her I told you— _if_ you see her again which isn’t likely, her being abroad—but rumor has it she’s got a secret drawer in one of them, stashed with a rather… _ahem…suggestive_ piece of literature. If you get my drift. You ok?” The woman asked, noticing Macy coughing rather suddenly.

Macy nodded. “ _Just…down the wrong pipe—”_ she managed to sputter, a particularly sordid thought occurring to her. _What if that desk were in the ambient lounge?_

_5 pm, Autumn 1994, Ambient Lounge_

She practically flew in, hair whirling about, tossing her heavy bag aside before locking the door behind her and making a beeline for the corner desk. Wondering how to locate a hidden compartment, she heard Harry’s words echo, the ones he had spoken to Maggie so long ago about Jordan’s ring and the possible resurgence of magic.

_Get him alone—_

_And touch him everywhere._

As if on instinct, her hand reached the leg of the desk, stroking its inner ankle as she moved her arm upward to its broad body, the pads of her fingers tracing every inch, caressing the smoothened edges, aligning her digits with the intricate inseam that made itself known mere moments later.

She could reach for the forbidden area, its secrets revealed. Or she could wait a second longer and pretend it was all a figment of her overactive imagination. But she knew, as a geneticist, she would forever be haunted by the road not taken, the path undiscovered, the clues unfounded. Despite her heart telling her it was best to live and let lie—she ran her index finger along the inseam’s perimeter as it opened with a heady gasp, revealing a white book, its prominent title displayed in crimson, blood-colored font, as she dropped the tome on the floor in horror.

_The Joy of S-x._

Clearly, it had to be Charity’s, but the book looked too new. Who was the intended giver? The recipient? Were they both the same? In the same vein… _did it even matter?_ She slid to the floor in a heap, momentarily at a loss for words. She knew Charity and Harry had a history—a much hinted-at romantic one—but never had she seen such a tawdry display.

It was easier to ignore when it was two and a half decades in the past. However, it was far more difficult to disregard when such risqué evidence was staring her straight in the face, as it was unfolding in the year 1994.

_6 pm, Autumn 1994, Ambient Lounge_

“I’ve got pumpkins!” Harry orbed in, holding two orange gourds the size and weight of oversized bowling balls. “From the farmer’s market—we can decorate—” He paused, noticing Macy on the floor next to the corner desk, racing to her side, checking her vital signs, discovering the affliction was of an emotional, non-physical sort.

“Love, _what is it?”_ He made as though to caress her cheek, but she turned away. Noticing the “Joy” book, he picked it up and frowned. “Mace, what’s this?”

“I was hoping you could tell me,” she sniffled. “I _get_ that you and Charity were… _are_ …a thing in 1994. I _get_ that it was romantic. What I _don’t_ get is why you never bothered to hide the evidence—”

“Er…evidence?” Harry was confused. “Mace, I’ve never seen this book before,” he stated, turning the weighty tome over in his hands before placing it atop the desk.

“Wait…and she never gave it to you since?” Macy spoke low, her voice incredulous.

He shook his head, though his visage dawned with a swift realization. “I think…Charity meant to gift it to me, but hadn’t had the chance to, and probably forgot about it since she’s fundraising in Bali.” He sat next to Macy, their backs to the wall as he held her close, alternating between stroking her mahogany curls and kissing her forehead at turns.

_6:15 pm, Autumn 1994, Ambient Lounge_

“Sorry,” Macy murmured, her voice muffled, buried in Harry’s shoulder.

“Mace, you have nothing to apologize for—I should be the one—”

Macy shook her head and peered into his visage. “You didn’t know. It’s not your fault. Just an unfortunate…coincidence?”

“Yes,” he replied. “A most unfortunate one. But I have you now, and that’s what matters. I love you Mace, and I don’t care how many times I need to say it—”

“Speaking of love and other things…” Macy changed the subject. “You brought pumpkins for decorating? How about we have dinner then start carving them?”

Harry’s expression softened. “Yes, love, _let’s._ ”

_8 pm, Autumn 1994, Ambient Lounge_

They surveyed their carved gourds, each glowing from their hollowed-out within by a single pearl-colored tea candle. Harry’s was a cornucopia of English roses, stars (one for each Vera-Vaughn sister), and a couple of hearts. Macy’s consisted of a carving of coffee beans, “ _Potentia Trium_ ” calligraphy, plus two hearts, their silent sentiments understood well to the other.

“Yours looks beautiful,” Macy remarked after several minutes.

“Yours too.” Harry reached over and squeezed her hand, of which she returned.

“How about we watch a movie? To get into the fall spirit and all?” she asked, finally taking her eyes off the pumpkins, their shadows dancing along the frost-glass window.

“That sounds like a splendid idea.”


	16. That Crimson Dress

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Macy has a nightmare and a disagreement with Harry. Macy notices Dr. Cora Callahan experimenting, creating blue apples. Who is the good witch? The bad witch? Also, Macy wears the red dress again, much to Harry’s delight.

16 That Crimson Dress

_“The constant buzzing/All through the night/The fight it/Rips me all up inside” –“On The Floor” song by Perfume Genius_

_Red._

_So much as it was a color, it too was an emotion._

_Her fingers brushed against the dress she knew Harry loved so much, the fabric’s sheen glistening in the cerulean darkness, hints of light beckoning in the distance, the silken folds brushing up against her lover’s cheek as they both sighed in ecstasy—_

_Transforming into red lace she recognized from her Valentine’s Day spent in Hilltowne, wearing a sultry outfit, mentally preparing herself to enter the ‘meat market’ of eligible bachelors at the local nightclub, noticing Harry’s mouth agape—_

_Switching and twirling into endless streamers—ribbons—velvet sashes—before settling upon a piece of snowy parchment, the script aligning itself just so, to make out one word, causing her to gasp—_

_Charity._

_7:45 am, Several Days Later, Four Weeks In, Mid-Autumn 1994, Ambient Lounge_

Macy thrashed in her sleep as Harry awakened, realizing she was in the throes of another nightmare. It didn’t take a genius to tell what about. “Mace, _Macy,”_ he began, shaking her gently, then with a firmer hand. “Macy!”

 _“I’m scared,”_ he heard her whimper as he held her close, perspiration dotting her forehead, eyes firmly shut, muscles seizing almost involuntarily.

“Follow my voice,” Harry murmured in response, lips to her forehead, brawny arms encircling her form. “Macy, this is a nightmare. Do you hear me, Macy?” Her arms, once tense, began to relax as her fists clenching his shirt uncoiled themselves. After a beat, her breathing normalized as Harry uttered a barely perceptible sigh of relief—though he knew she had yet to rouse herself.

“Wake up—wake up— _wake up!_ ” as her eyes darted open, frantically searching the room for the endless scarlet ribbons that had been threatening to choke her moments before.

“ _Shit,_ I’m gonna be late for work!” she gasped, pulling away, moving as though to throw on a pair of slacks and a nondescript blouse—but Harry’s grip yanked her back onto the bed.

“Mace, you are clearly unwell—you _cannot—_ ” his eyes met hers to emphasize his point, “—go to work, especially like this.”

“ _Do not try me Harry—I’ll take a taxi if I have to—”_ Out of the corner of his eye, Harry spotted several kitchen utensils floating in mid-air and swallowed hard. _This could get out of hand._ Realizing defeat, he released his hold as she frantically dressed herself in the ensuing minutes. After jamming two left shoes onto her right foot, she realized her error and found its partner before motioning over to Harry. _Are you going to orb me there or what?_

Rolling his eyes, he offered his arm which Macy took, her shoulder bag thumping against her hip as they disappeared into the basement of the biochemistry laboratory building.

_7:52 am, Mid-Autumn 1994, Biochemistry Building Stairwell_

“ _We’re discussing this after work_ —” Harry hissed before Macy traversed the stairs to the laboratory overhead. “Or else—”

“ _Or else—?”_ She stepped closer, bridging the space between them. “You’re not the boss of me—”

 _Was that a threat?_ “Mace—” he stroked her cheek, glad she did not flinch. “If you don’t air this out, destiny will keep reasserting itself until you do—and I don’t want to wait until then. You really ought _not_ to be at work—”

“You ought _not_ to tell me what to do—” For a moment, Harry thought he saw a flash of amber-orange glow in Macy’s irises. _Was that his imagination?_ He felt a rather pleasant tingle in the base of his spine that awakened rather passionate memories of an earlier encounter at Vera Manor, though he brushed the thought away in an effort to reach out to his oldest charge in his Whitelighter capacity.

“Should anything happen—” Harry attempted to assert his views once more—

“It won’t,” she replied pointedly. “ _And I’m almost late for work_ ,” she muttered, brushing past him, racing up the stairs to avoid Cora’s glare.

“…I love you too?” Harry all but whispered, his eyes never leaving her curvaceous departing form.

_5 pm, Mid-Autumn 1994, Ambient Lounge_

Macy slammed her purse onto the floor, having completed another day under Cora’s supervision. Harry wouldn’t be back for another hour, which gave her ample time to go for a much-needed jog, out the door, across the courtyard, crossing the road to the cemetery and recreational park.

_5:20 pm, Mid-Autumn 1994, Cemetery Hill_

She ran clear across the flat greenery endemic to most American college campuses. They all had perfectly coiffed turf (no doubt a result of hefty tuition fees), not to mention a stone statue of its founders and beneficiaries. Plus or minus a college kid handing out flyers to the latest party/nightclub event/slam poetry whatsit. _Once you’ve seen one, you’ve seen them all._ She stopped, startled by her own cynicism as she waited for a couple of cars to pass by before crossing. _Had becoming a scientist and a witch left her that jaded after all?_

Crossing the street onto the familiar Gothic forest-lined cemetery, she pondered the question in her mind briefly before deciding— _no._ She wasn’t cynical—not _entirely_ —not _yet_. Reflecting on her past interactions with magic and where she was currently situated, she noted most campuses did not have a quaint Icelandic-style cemetery, having done a bit of research in the library during her lunch break on that particular topic. _Maybe Charity had Icelandic origins and wished to pay silent homage to her ancestors? The Icelandic part would certainly explain her bright hair color…_

_5:30 pm, Mid-Autumn 1994, Cemetery Hill_

Perhaps it was a function of Marisol and the necromancer; for whatever reason, she felt a certain aura of peace here, surrounded by stone markers, than near anywhere else.

_Are you a good witch or a bad witch?_

No.

She tried ignoring the question which she’d often pondered, and which she’d accidently seen scribbled onto Cora’s notepad, left one desk over while cleaning up a bright blue experimentation of her own involving sodium chloride, a healthy amount of iridium and cobalt, and what appeared to be orchard apples. It secretly reminded Macy of Disney’s “Snow White,” except instead of a skull-lined apple, Cora was dying apples blue. _Literally, why?_ She was fairly sure apples tasted good enough on their own, but definitely didn’t want to interfere with any possible revolutionary discoveries.

_Who was the question for—Cora herself—or Macy?_

_And what defined a “good witch” nowadays, anyways?_

She often thought the intent to help others meant she was a good witch, but then Charity entered her mind—the woman who had an earnest belief she was acting for the good of all by thwarting Marisol’s prophecy even if it meant causing the death of her dearest friend—and who had, much later, tried to pin Elder Bari’s death on Macy herself.

If she thought about it, here, in 1994, Charity was alive and well in Bali, probably involved with 1994 Harry to some undisclosed degree. _Here, to sum it up, she herself--Macy--was the other woman._ Even if by victim of circumstance. Even if it wasn’t intended that way. How was it possible for Harry to be so level-headed about it all? If she were in his shoes, she’d be stressed out beyond belief.

_I am finding a cure—or something—against Scythe._

_I am a scientist. And a witch._

_I will keep saving lives._

_And that is what fuels the good and the light within me._

_6:30 pm, Mid-Autumn 1994, Ambient Lounge_

No sooner had Harry plunked roast pheasant and mashed peas upon the table, did she begin to speak. “Harry, I had a nightmare that _that_ book, in the desk—its calligraphy—was strangling me—”

His hand grasping the serving spoon halted in midair. “Mace, we don’t have to talk about this, I’m sorry—”

But she shook her head. “You’re right, Harry. If I don’t address this, destiny will reassert itself in other dark ways. I need to figure this out.”

“Very well,” he resumed scooping peas onto both of their plates, followed by a couple slices each of the pheasant. “What do you believe is happening?”

“I think…” Macy paused. “I think Cora’s deciding whether I’m good or evil. Until then, she’s making my life miserable. And there’s nothing I can do. Hence,” she gestured, “all the nightmares of falling, the crimson dress I wore in Hilltowne turning into the book’s calligraphy, switching to streamers trying to pin me down in the cover of darkness.”

_6:40 pm, Mid-Autumn 1994, Ambient Lounge_

“Nightmares _are_ often a distorted, exaggerated way our subconscious makes sense of reality and fear,” mused Harry aloud, cutting into his poultry, as if he were talking innocuously about the day’s weather. “Sometimes, I find extracting and amplifying an element in that nightmare cures the dreamer—”

“Extracting? _Amplifying?_ ” Macy made a face. “That sounds…unpleasant.” Her memory wandered to the time she had to extract his form from a large bulletproof glass-enclosed cylinder in a laboratory basement involving her ex’s socialite aunt.

“Quite the contrary,” Harry remarked between bites. “It’s as simple as, say, reading a page from the book you saw—”

“ _NO._ ”

“Or, taking a bit of red streamer—”

“Um, _what_ red streamer?”

“Alternatively,” feeling his own face grow hot, “you could wear that red dress you saw in your nightmare—” as Macy’s visage broke into a sly grin.

“Ok, now _that’s_ something I can work with. Excuse me for a minute—” and she left for the closet before he could stop her, stepping out moments later in the very same dress.

“Oh _Macy,_ ” he breathed, his eyes never leaving her own. “You look… _exquisite._ ”

Instead of returning to her seat across from his, she walked up to him as he looked upward at her visage, a veritable angel. _Or a magical one._ “Mace,” his voice shook as he wondered whether he’d be able to control himself. “Your seat’s over there.” _I would take you right here, right now…but I must resist. I must…resist…cure you of your nightmare…it’s my duty…my…duty…oh my…that crimson…those willowy limbs…those sumptuous curves…_ His thoughts swirled incoherently in his mind as his whitened knuckles gripped the sides of his chair— _focus, for heaven’s sake!_

“But _Harry_ , I much prefer sitting here. On your lap,” she all but purred with a certain twinkle in her eye. “Feeding you roast pheasant, as we talk about this nightmare of mine which is slowly going away by the second. _It’ll make me feel better…?_ ” He realized she knew exactly what she was doing. _Naughty minx._

Swallowing hard, Harry nodded mutely as he soon found her sensuous form sitting atop him doing exactly that, in wonderment at his luck as he found her tapered fingers meeting the edge of his wanting mouth.


	17. Silencio Sisters and a Crescent Moon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dr. Cora Callahan has a flashback to when daughter Charity encounters Marisol at college and wreaks havoc on a misogynistic professor whose demise is laid out in detail in Melanija Paradis’ “Sundays with Scheherazade.” Harry surprises Macy when her candlelight yoga plan is upended by a lack of candles.

17 Silencio Sisters and a Crescent Moon

_“When a woman is both silent and smiling, you’re in danger.” -Truth No. 2, Ark & Co (Instagram)_

_9 am, Five Weeks In, Mid-Autumn 1994, Biochemistry Laboratory_

Cora stood in the doorway once more, watching as Macy continued to pipet isinglass and agar into separate petri dishes to observe their reactions to various undisclosed elements, wondering what her motive was. This young woman was far too sharp to study, of all things, _pre-formed gelatin._ Sure, the substance had its practical uses but Cora would’ve fancied her a more innovative sort.

_What a disappointment._

Maybe it wasn’t the young scientist’s fault. Her own hopes and dreams for her own daughter had been subconsciously superimposed upon the melanin-hued lady before her. _Charity would’ve chosen genomic inventions, if she’d majored in biochemistry. She would’ve taken the scientific world asunder, with new-fangled developments by the year, with her brainy-yet-quick-thinking nature. Impetuous? Perhaps. Foolish? Never._ As it were, her daughter’s chosen path had been business school, much to the detriment of a certain Professor Aristide Kevinson…

_Flashback, Mid-Autumn, Early 1980s, Seven Sisters College, Graduate School, Professor Kevinson’s Office_

_Professor Aristide Kevinson was a young, smarmy masculine mustachioed sort, the type that derided women in business professions and the style of their writing. The one that continually rejected females from entering the high-brow esteemed professional societies for chronic overachievers. For reasons unknown, he had been in a particularly obnoxious mood as of late._

He heard a knock at the door. “Come in!” he called out as the student entered. _Ugh, her again,_ his congenial expression transformed into a barely disguised grimace.

“Did you miss me, Aristide?” Charity swept in and sat on the cushioned leather armchair facing his desk.

“Absolutely _not—_ ” he retorted, annoyed at the lack of deference. “And must I remind you, in these hallowed halls my name is _Professor—"_

“ _Right,_ and my name’s Fiona—” she laughed sarcastically, the professor’s visage turning a deep puce.

“What do you want?” he hissed, glancing at the door to make sure it was still shut. “And that… _dalliance…_ with your sister was simply that. And no more,” ignoring Charity’s seconds-long flash of anger sweeping across her visage before it regained its smooth glaciality once more.

“Well, since I’m here, I’d like to contest your decision to block my entrance to the Crest & Key Society.”

“My decision’s final, Charity.”

“But _why?”_

“You’re too assertive at all the wrong moments, have too much Bond-esque double agent finesse, but you also lack discretion—case in point, _now._ Truth be told,” he finished as Charity silently fumed, breathing through her teeth, “you’re not transparent enough. You’d be a terrible fit.”

Charity rose from her seat. “If you don’t let me in, Aristide, I swear to God I’ll—”

“ _What?_ ” His mirthless eyes fixed upon her seething form. “Tell the faculty about me and Fiona? Honestly, woman, it’s her word or mine. And I’m an esteemed professor. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out who they’ll side with—”

Having heard enough, Charity stormed out of his office, nearly colliding with a passing student, causing her to drop her books all over. “Oh my—” she breathed. “I’m so, _so,_ sorry—” Charity picked up the other student’s books, handing them to her. “We’re in the same Kevinson seminar together, aren’t we?”

The student nodded. Charity held out her hand. “I’m Charity. You’re?”

“Marisol,” the student answered, sweeping a long lock of ebony hair behind an ear before extending her own. “My name’s Marisol.”

_Flashback, Three Weeks Later, 10 am, Seven Sisters College, Graduate School, Lecture Hall_

She couldn’t stand his mustachioed face. _Did the man never shave?_ It looked as if he constantly wore a solid-colored racoon pelt about his upper lip.

“ _I hate him_.”

“You’re not the first—”

Charity gave a start before realizing it was Marisol who spoke, seated next to her. “Whoops, did I say that out loud?”

Marisol nodded. “He’s gotten a series of complaints, and something tells me he’s not long for this continent…” giving her friend a rather knowing look. In a lower voice, she added, “ _I’m sorry about the Fiona drama, she didn’t deserve that—”_

“Nobody does. But thanks.” Charity sighed. Once a week lecture with Aristide was bad enough, but today’s topic was “The Rationale for a Lack of Women Inventors and Mathematicians,” and she could already feel her blood boiling.

_Flashback, Same Day, 10:30 am, Seven Sisters College, Graduate School, Lecture Hall_

She was irredeemably, utterly, without-a-doubt, going to be in trouble once her mother found out. But she could care less, her fingers twitching above the edge of her notebook and carefully-typed reference materials as she whispered _Silencio_ , grinning mischievously, waiting for the shenanigans to begin.

At first, she wondered whether the hex failed, but moments later, she noticed it begin to take hold, as the professor’s words began missing one syllable, then two, three, until—

_He was muted._

Apparently, he was so far lost in his own world that he himself hadn’t noticed, until a trickle—then a veritable stream—of students began leaving the lecture hall, frustrated at their own inability to hear the entirety of the (albeit terrible) lesson, until it was just Charity and Marisol left in the very back on the room, Marisol biting her lip to avoid dissolving into giggles, knowing it was an utterly cruel exercise on one hand, but knowing it was all-too-well-deserved on the other.

_Flashback, Next Day, Seven Sisters College, Graduate School, Registrar’s Office_

The phone calls began pouring in to the registrar’s office—something about Professor Aristide Kevinson’s unorthodox teaching tactics and parental furor over wasted tuition dollars. After five hours, the college president called an emergency meeting, deciding that Aristide would resign from his post, and be quickly transferred to a law school in England. Little did he know he would encounter a young barrister-in-training, Abigael Jamison-Caine, who would cause his death by rapid onset disease, detailed by Melanija Paradis in “Sundays with Scheherazade.”

_Flashback, 11 pm, Seven Sisters College, Graduate School, Phone Booth_

“Mom, is that you?” A quavering voice could be heard. _Tear-stained, perhaps._

Cora had picked up on the first ring, immediately sensing something was amiss. “Yes, darling. Who died?”

“Mom, _what a thing to say!”_ Charity replied in a scandalized voice.

“Look, dear, you call once in a blue moon and even then…so what did you do now?”

“ _Pro—Professor Aristide.”_

 _Well, shit._ “Where’s the body?”

“ _Mom!_ He resigned. I-I used my magic in public. Well, sorta. I…um… _muted him_.” Charity held her breath, awaiting the hailstorm fury she had come to expect in years past for having flaunted her powers before mere mortals, and was surprised when she heard peals of laughter. “Mom?”

“Dear, I am _so_ proud of you. And never let any man dampen your spirit. You hear me?”

“Y-yeah.”

“Now go out and have a good time and pretend this never happened. It’ll sort itself out in the morning, y’hear me?”

“O-ok. Ok mom. Thanks,” she hung up the phone, staring upward at the luminous moon overhead, wondering if this was the beginning of a morally dubious vigilante life path.

_One almost had to pity the man._

_10 am, Mid-Autumn 1994, Biochemistry Laboratory_

In the end, Cora mused to herself, thinking over the Aristide incident, Charity never did gain admission to the Crest & Key Society, instead starting her own entrepreneurial society to help disenfranchised women worldwide; her accolades were manifold. She was proud to have raised such an ambitious, powerful daughter who lived her life to the fullest—in this temporal plane, anyways.

“Cora—” the silver-haired woman was jolted back to reality.

“Yes?”

“Could you, er, move a bit to the right? I need to wash my hands in the restroom. Putrid gelatin,” Macy explained ruefully, hands held up as Cora stepped to the side.

“My apologies—take all the time you need,” Cora affably replied, watching Macy traverse the length of the darkened corridor.

_Macy was far too sweet to ever be a Charity._

_8 pm, Mid-Autumn 1994, Ambient Lounge_

_Candlelight yoga._ That was the plan, but Macy had forgotten to buy candles. The morning’s experiment had gone horribly sticky, forcing Macy to change her lab coat and conduct her analyses another three times. As a result, she hadn’t arrived back to the ambient lounge until 7:30 pm. Thank goodness Harry had ordered take-out, which they had devoured by the light of the glowing jack-o’-lanterns they had carved earlier. _Noodles and spicy chicken. Nommity._

Afterwards, he had covered her eyes with his hands, leading her over to an edge of the lounge separated by a high cotton sheet from the rest of the room. “Harry, what on earth…?”

“Keep walking, love…almost there…alright, open your eyes!”

Macy stared at the six sumptuous pillows atop a down blanket, a crescent moon lantern illuminating the scenery, with bits of cloudy fog emanating forth, the wall painted to resemble a fiery pink sunrise, the layered sheet overhead dotted with a myriad of sparkling tea lights to complete the beauteous arrangement. “Wow,” she breathed. “Harry—how did you…? And what did you use? And—?”

“Less questions, more yoga,” Harry kissed the nape of her neck as her eyes fluttered, savoring his very touch.

“Right, yoga—” Macy spotted her mat in a corner of the down blanket, walking over to unroll it. “But I gotta get you a mat too—”

“No, love, I’m perfectly fine watching you from here. And I have my own workout routine.” _Did she detect the faintest hint of a smirk?_

“Ok,” she laughed. “Whatever floats your boat. How’d you get the idea?” she finished unrolling her mat and sat cross-legged, Harry crouching beside her form.

“Oh, I told Maggie you had nightmares and she texted an Instagram #fairylights post I mimicked.” He drew closer, stroking her cheek. “Do you like it?”

“ _Harry._ ” She spoke his name upon her tongue as if it were the finest Cabernet Sauvignon. “I like it _very_ much,” as her lips met his once more.


	18. Creations of Carrageen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A shared calendar item unexpectedly pops up, leading to Macy and Harry discussing the possibility of kids. Marisol is terrified at going it alone, but Harry's a loyal friend, as always.

18 Creations of Carrageen

_“A drop in the ocean/A change in the weather/I was praying that you and me might end up together” -“A Drop in the Ocean” song by Ron Pope_

_9 am, Five Weeks and One Day In, Mid-Autumn 1994, Ambient Lounge_

Macy stared at the six sumptuous pillows atop a down blanket, a crescent moon lantern illuminating the scenery, with bits of cloudy fog emanating forth, the wall painted to resemble a fiery pink sunrise, the layered sheet overhead dotted with a myriad of sparkling tea lights to complete the beauteous arrangement.

_I’m gonna be late for work—_

_Oh wait—_

_It’s Saturday._

She heard her phone buzz twice. Checking her inbox, she noticed a message from Mel.

_Got the carrageen. Had to go to Ireland. It was boggy. We got wet._

“Thanks sis,” she whispered aloud, the voice text swiftly sent in reply. Realizing she had one more unread item, she swiped across her screen and drew a sharp intake of breath.

A calendar reminder she’d written to herself, five years ago, telling her, in all caps, to “START TAKING PRENATAL VITAMINS!!!” As an early twenty-something ( _was it really that long ago?_ ) she would often write future reminders to herself in case she forgot later. One of those reminders had been based on the assumption that, approaching thirty, she would _of course_ have a husband and soon enough, children of her own.

As it currently stood, she had a well-preserved hundred-year-old boyfriend with two separate diametrically-opposed personalities. It sounded weird in her head, but then again, her reborn life was filled with countless contradictions, each crazier than the next. If someone had stopped her on the street two years ago and said she had two sisters, magical ancestry, and would end up with a century-old paramour, she would’ve sent them straight to the nearest medical facility for a thorough mental health evaluation.

She blinked hard, trying to will away the hopelessness threatening to arise in the form of tears, frustration of the past few weeks fleeing pestilence roiling and fomenting within, an ocean of worries rampant in her soul instead of living her dreams and hopes— _their_ dreams and hopes…

“Mace,” she felt his hand brush upon the nape of her neck as he perched his head on her shoulder, peering over at her screen as she tried to shove him away—“what’s that?”

“ _Nothing—”_ she bit her lip, avoiding his glance as he drew forward, raising her chin with a forefinger so her visage met his. “Nothing important—"

“ _And that’s where you’re wrong, Macy_ ,” Harry murmured, holding up his own phone which displayed an equally prominent “START TAKING PRENATAL VITAMINS!!!” reminder as Macy blushed. “Shared calendars, remember?”

“Oh God…this is _so_ embarrassing. Sorry…I made the note years ago, like a time capsule, reminding me of things to do, people to see…”

“Children to be had?” The corners of Harry’s mouth crinkled upward, his voice hinting at… _hope?..._ as Macy swallowed hard.

“As a matter of speaking…” her voice trailed off. “I had this idea when I was much younger, that I’d have a husband and someday kids of my own, and I wanted to prepare for it all, in whatever way I knew how. It’s the perfectionist in me—it’s silly—”

“No Mace,” murmured Harry, tucking a stray curl behind her ear, stroking her cheek. “Given we’re in the early throes of a committed relationship, I don’t think that’s silly at all. In fact, it’s quite smart. I’ve read that women of childbearing age should have 400-800 mcg of folic acid a day, and it’s good to build up stores in advance.”

“I figured…it was the least I could do for my future kids. Someday,” Macy clarified. “Definitely not now, but, y’know, someday when I’m married and ready.”

“You mean, someday when _we’re_ married, and _we’re_ ready.”

“Oh Harry,” Macy’s eyes glowed. “I _love_ the way you talk.”

_1 pm, Mid-Autumn 1994, Ambient Lounge_

Their reverie had been interrupted by a single text from Maggie this time.

 _INCOMING_ , the text read.

 _What the—?_ Macy read the word, puzzled, before a thought occurred to her; she summoned her enchanted purse forward via telekinesis, its insides positively bulging at the seams. All of a sudden, a giant beachball-sized maroon-colored bundle burst forth from within, flying through the air, landing squarely in Harry’s outstretched hand.

“Nice catch,” she remarked as he orbed forward to hand her the damp object.

“Where would you…er…like this?” he asked, its tendrils dripping salty ocean upon the wood floor.

“On the desk,” Macy answered, eagerly anticipating the moment she would be able to initiate her evening “Operation Scythe” experiments. She just needed a bit more agar and pectin…

_8 pm, March, Early 2000s, Upstairs Bathroom, Vera Manor_

Little Mel (her daughter insisted upon Mel, _not_ Mellie) was already asleep, darling Macy was a hundred miles away, and she herself was locked in the upstairs bathroom, taking a certain type of test for the third time in her life.

_At each turn, it always began with dreaming of the universal yin-yang symbol, floating in mid-air, surrounded by a fiery set of firework sparklers glowing in the darkness, illuminating the Book of Shadows in the distance. With one letter inscribed within its aged parchment every time, the letter “M” just like her own name. When she approached the calligraphy, she would experience an oddly comforting sensation, as if a tiny soul were awakening, notifying her of its presence within her._

This time was no different—but she chose to confirm her suspicions with a plastic stick.

_8:02 pm, Mid-Autumn 1994, Ambient Lounge_

After dinner (roast potatoes, baked salmon, and steamed broccoli), the pair resumed their morning conversation. “Macy, out of curiosity, how many children would you like?”

She thought for a moment. “Definitely more than one, I remember growing up isolated—two or three might be nice—”

“I think that could be arranged,” he grinned. “I’ll definitely have fun putting them there,” he smirked a moment later as Macy raised an eyebrow.

“You better take care of me all those nine months—”

“Oh, I _shall_. Those foot rubs, shoulder massages, et cetera. Wouldn’t miss it for the world,” he answered. “I have my regrets in that department,” alluding to Carter, “but I intend to be there every step of the way.”

A couple minutes passed, then Macy spoke again. “Harry—enough about me—how many kids do _you_ want? Do you even _want_ kids? I mean, you’re—”

“Old?” his lips twitched in amusement. “I prefer the term _aged,_ like fine wine. And yes, I would love kids of our own, knowing you would be their mother.”

“Aww, Harry,” she began to tear up. “That’s _so_ sweet.”

_8:05 pm, March, Early 2000s, Upstairs Bathroom, Vera Manor_

After her watch indicated it was time, she took a deep breath, her arms shaking as she reached for the piece of plastic.

_Two bright sapphire lines._

She dropped to the floor, sobbing quietly to herself to avoid waking Mellie, _her Mellie_ , fast asleep two rooms away. A change was going to come, a most welcome one, but part of her, in the secret depths of her innermost soul’s sanctum, wished that he and her would have ended up together. _Forever._

_Maybe in a different life. Another time, in another world._

_But not now._

_She had to stay strong, for her third child would fulfill the very creation of the Charmed Ones._

_8:10 pm, Mid-Autumn 1994, Ambient Lounge_

“Also, Macy, these are for you,” Harry reached inside a paper bag, pulling out a plastic bottle of chewable honey-lemon-flavored prenatal vitamins, noting that the gummy vitamins he dropped off at Marisol’s house in the early 2000s (decades before, counting from 2020), had not been invented until 1997. “Whenever you’re ready to take them. _I love you._ And I want to show that love to our children as well.”

“Oh, Harry _…_ thank you. _I love you too.”_


	19. You've Got Mail

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Marisol decides how to tell Dexter she’s pregnant. Everyone enjoys “You’ve Got Mail” movie night on different temporal planes. (Note: movie spoiler ahead!)

19 You’ve Got Mail

_“My breath catches in my chest until I hear three little words: 'You've got mail.' I hear nothing. Not even a sound on the streets of New York, just the beat of my own heart. I have mail. From you." –“You’ve Got Mail” movie (1998)_

_Next Morning, March, Early 2000s, Attic, Vera Manor_

Mini thermos of peppermint tea beside her, Marisol booted up her laptop, her fingers absentmindedly tapping the identical square keys before her. The world wide web had been a godsend, her only true real-time connection to Dexter since she had left (not including their letters, which took several days’ journey to each other’s respective abodes). She logged into her encrypted email account and began to compose a carefully-worded message.

 _Hi,_ she typed. _Remember that time a couple months ago, you dropped by and we did the deed in the marital bed of my absentee partner…who isn’t you? While my daughter from said partner was fast asleep two rooms away? I have something to tell you—_

 _Ugh._ She sighed as she highlighted the text, deleting it in its entirely. It sounded far too tawdry, even for Dexter’s taste. Not to mention the whole “scarlet letter” nature of it all. What were her expectations for Dexter, as a father to a child he would most likely never see? What was best for her _own_ gestating child? She had a sudden urge to google “child support,” “necromancer curse,” and “one-night-stand” but didn’t want to leave a questionable search history behind in her tracks, in case Mel had to borrow the laptop for a book report. 

Before she could type any further, she heard a _ping_ , indicating Dexter had messaged her via instant messenger. _You’ve got mail._ This was a surprise. She hadn’t known him for a technocrat.

_Hi Soley. Just checking in. -Dex_

Steadying her hands, she typed back. _Hi Dex, is that progress I see? -M_

_Macy taught me. You ok? -Dex_

The screen blurred as she saw her firstborn’s name. _Marcella Yesenia, Macy for short._

 _I’m—_ Marisol began to type. _Pregnant? Carrying your questionably (il)legitimate child? Fulfilling the Charmed Ones’ prophecy?_ This was the stuff of erotic epistolary novels, not instant messages. Hands poised above the keyboard, she completed her sentence.

_I’m fine._

_7 pm, Six Weeks In, Mid-Autumn 1994, Yoga Nook, Ambient Lounge_

Macy and Harry found themselves curled up together on the down blanket, their backs cushioned by a sumptuous pillow each, the crescent moon lantern illuminating the wall, the layered sheet overhead dotted with a myriad of sparkling tea lights to complete the beauteous arrangement. “How about a movie night?” Harry suggested, after several minutes’ silence.

“That sounds awesome,” Macy replied, exhausted from having spent the day analyzing the gelling properties of agar. It was like watching paint dry. Sometimes she wondered if the sheer tedium of studying gelatin would kill her faster than Scythe itself. Isinglass, she had learned, was too fragile to hold up against magical threats; mulberry-hued carrageen was obscenely tangly, and she and Harry had spent days trying to comb it out of her curly hair. Agar was far thicker, which meant it had possibilities in the way of mortal combat. “Which one?”

“Well…” Harry orbed to his duffel bag, rifling through. “We have Judd Apatow’s “Knocked Up,” Meg Ryan’s “You’ve Got Mail,”—”

“You’ve Got Mail!”

“Alrighty then.”

_7:30 pm, March, Early 2000s, Living Room, Vera Manor_

Marisol thumbed through her selection of DVDs. She wanted something lighthearted, uplifting, not overly dark. Closing her eyes, she placed her index finger on a random movie title. _Surprise me_ , she thought of her little one. She opened her eyes.

The title read “You’ve Got Mail.”

“ _Excellent_ choice,” she smiled to herself. This tiny child of hers seemed to have a rather sunny personality not to mention preferences, a welcome foil to Mel’s precocious moodiness. “Mel!” she called upstairs. “I’m watching “You’ve Got Mail”!” Marisol approached the foot of the banister. “Want to join? Movie night? _Please?_ ”

_7:31 pm, March, Early 2000s, Mel’s Bedroom, Vera Manor_

Upstairs, Mel was working on her collage of Frieda Kahlo for art class. Hearing her mother’s request for movie night, she was about to shout back that she was busy, and _besides,_ she didn’t identify with the protagonist and her predictable woman-ends-up-with-man thing. But she heard the faint plea in Marisol’s “ _please_ ” that halted her in her tracks.

Something _was_ different. Something _felt_ different.

Whatever it was, young Mel couldn’t quite put her finger on it, but she instinctively understood, at that moment in time, that Marisol needed her by her side. “Coming!” she shouted, running out of her bedroom, down the stairs, Kahlo art be damned.

_7:50 pm, March, Early 2000s, Living Room, Vera Manor_

Mel and Marisol found themselves watching Meg Ryan and Tom Hanks play dueling business rivals, a bowl of popcorn atop the coffee table in front of them.

“Taking down a female small business entrepreneur? The misogynistic _nerve_ of him,” Mel muttered, grousing to herself.

“Sweetie, most people watch it for the rom-com aspect—” Marisol remarked, comprehending quite well her daughter didn’t identify with the heteronormative storyline at all. It was a miracle she showed up in the first place for this particular movie night. _Which meant—_ Marisol realized— _Mel knew something was up, probably, just not what that something was._

_A story for another day._

_For now, it was time for some much-needed company._

_Mother-daughter bonding._

“You’re amazing, you know that?” Marisol murmured, gently tousling Mel’s hair as Mel turned around and gave her a half-smile.

“I try.”

_8 pm, March, Early 2000s, Vaughn Residence_

It began with a knock at the door. A courier. _At this late hour?_ Puzzled, Dexter opened the front door half an inch, unbolting the top lock to receive a flat envelope from an undisclosed address. Which meant it could only have come from one person, and one person alone—

_Marisol._

Using a letter opener, he tore the top seam in a single swift motion, as a glossy black-and-white photo fell to the ground. Picking it up, he squinted then felt as though all the oxygen had been sucked out of his body. Eyes wide and hands shaking, he re-examined the image, an indication of life yet to come.

_A sonogram._

Turning the image over, he spotted in her telltale cursive, the words: “A girl. _Ours._ ”

He realized this had been a mistake—his Soley was already involved with someone else—but that evening’s explosion of passion into a veritable nebula had resulted in the conception of a sister for their oldest child. Counting down the months on the kitchen calendar mere feet away, he placed a tiny heart at the start of the month of October.

“What’s that heart for?” Dexter nearly jumped out of his skin. _Macy._ Stuffing the sonogram image in his jeans pocket, he turned around to face her.

“To tell your mother I love her,” as he exited the room, leaving his middle school-aged daughter staring after him in his wake. _But…isn’t she dead?_

_9 pm, Mid-Autumn 1994, Yoga Nook, Ambient Lounge_

“ _I wanted it to be you. I wanted it to be you so badly_.” Macy and Harry watched as Kathleen Kelly and Joe Fox met up at the end of the movie, finding their own happily-ever-after, as Harry wiped a single tear from his visage which did not go unnoticed.

“Harry,” she whispered. “Why are you crying?” She ruffled his chestnut hair affectionately as he recovered himself.

“I’m thinking of how the universe conspired for us to be together,” he murmured. “And how others didn’t get their happily-ever-after. Dear friends of mine who struggled so much. Like your mother, Marisol.”

“You were close friends with her?” she asked, though not all that surprised, given Harry’s tendency to befriend females from a purely platonic perspective.

He nodded. “I provided her with ginger chews when she was expecting Mel, and gummy vitamins when she was soon to have Maggie. She was so lonely, with Ray gone half the year and Dex…being _Dex_ ,” alluding to the necromancer’s curse, as Macy’s eyes brimmed with tears.

“This is _all_ my fault,” her lip trembled. “If I hadn’t been born—”

“Don’t talk like that, Mace! She chose her path in tandem with destiny asserting itself, ushering forth the next generation of Charmed Ones. She had a higher calling, you _must_ understand—”

“I understand, but that doesn’t mean I like how it unfolded.”

Harry mulled this over. “You and I _both_ , love. I do sometimes wish I could’ve been there more, _done_ more, kept her company more—”

“ _Harry_.” It was one word but meant everything when uttered from Macy’s lips. “You went above the call of duty. You kept my sisters nourished even _before_ they were born. Most men back then wouldn’t have done that for a friend—maybe for a spouse if bothered enough—but _never_ a friend.”

“But I’m not a man, I’m a _Whitelighter_ —” Harry mock-pouted as Macy giggled.

“I think you’re both, and I love _every_ bit of you,” she said as she pinned his arms to the down comforter, “from your chestnut hair,” kissing him soundly about the lips, catching him by surprise, “down to your Oxford grey argyle socks.”


	20. Of Raucous Rustle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry is scared of getting his flu shot. Cora plants a tracking device which backfires. Macy and Harry discuss experimenting with jellies, a slight double entendre causing confusion at the farmer’s market.

20 Of Raucous Rustle 

_"I will make thee think thy swan a crow." -William Shakespeare_

_8 am, Six Weeks In, Mid-Autumn 1994, Ambient Lounge_

He nestled closer to her, the tops of his thighs aligning with the backs of hers to the hilt, the subtle curves of her legs crevassed along the outer edge of his own as she sighed backing herself into his warm, all-encompassing embrace—

_CHOPCHOPCHOPCHOPCHOP—_

The pair bolted up in bed. _The hell?_

Cacophony ensued from directly past the frost-glass cubic window as Macy noticed grey-oaken timbered limbs catapulting from above. _Clearing underbrush and stray tree branches from the tiny gatherings of trees—the copsewood,_ she guessed. _To avoid storm damage to architectural gems._ They continued to hear the hum of the bellowing machine as thick, pliant sticks entered its quivering hole, vibrations ensuing as such pieces were sucked in, positively _devoured_ , and spat out in powdery crumbs on the other side.

Figuring out the source of the noise, Harry slumped over, thrusting a pillow over his head, groaning and petulantly muttering “ _this would never happen in England…how utterly barbaric—”_ as Macy patted him on the shoulder, coddling him instead of the other way around. Knowing she herself was unable to sleep through the racket (while wishing she knew how Charity’s muting hex worked), she rose to prepare breakfast. This three-day-weekend wasn’t ending on an especially high note.

_8:20 am, Mid-Autumn 1994, Ambient Lounge_

Initially, the extent of her breakfast cooking skills had been overcooked scrambled eggs. Since coming under Harry’s tutelage a couple years ago, her repertoire expanded to include sunny-side-up eggs, fried sausages, and a halfway decent oatmeal (still a work in progress…). Macy managed to make two sunny-side-up eggs with sides of leftover pico de gallo and guacamole, and corn tortillas on the sides, using remnants of their taco lunch the day before. She’d first tried the dish last year, when Mel and Maggie introduced her to _huevos rancheros_.

“Breakfast!” she called, even though there was only one other person in the room.

_8:50 am, Mid-Autumn 1994, Ambient Lounge_

“Absolutely _delectable!_ ” Harry wiped the corners of his mouth with a napkin. _The best breakfast he’d had in…a week? A year?_ “My compliments to the chef,” he saucily remarked as Macy giggled. “So…what now?”

“Now?” _Oh—right._ Macy’s face fell slightly.

“Mace, you’re hiding something—” Harry leaned forward. “What is it?”

She paused. “Well…”

“ _Tell me_.”

 _Ok then._ “Harry, we need to get our flu shots at the college clinic today,” as his visage noticeably blanched. His greatest fear was bees. His next greatest? _Getting shots._

He shook his head. “It’s not on our shared calendar—”

“Of course it’s not, I knew how you’d react—”

“Make it next week, love, _please?_ ” He was giving her the puppy-dog eyes. “I’ll do the dishes for a week—a year— _what’s so funny?”_

Macy bit her lip, attempting to stifle a smile. “You _already_ do the dishes. That’s not much of an incentive. And _besides,_ getting a flu shot is another layer of fighting off Scythe, from a microbial standpoint.”

“I just wish it involved something other than needles,” he grimaced. His wartime experiences were seared in his memory—unclean instruments, leading to sepsis and heaven knew what else. Deaths in droves, until sterilization became widely mandated. His experience in Vivienne Laurent’s laboratory gave him panicky feelings about compact medical facilities that still hadn’t faded, even to this day.

_10 am, Mid-Autumn 1994, Outside College Clinic_

“Harry, you’re blocking the door—”

“No I’m not—” though the toe of his right food obstructed its opening fully.

Macy sighed, exasperated. “Are we _seriously_ gonna be here all day? Other people need their flu shots too!”

He craned his neck toward the back of the hallway, but they were the only two in line. “Mace, there’s no one here—nobody else—”

“What about _me? I_ need my flu shot!” Macy hissed in his ear, prodding him forward as he landed squarely in the medical clinic.

_10:10 am, Mid-Autumn 1994, College Clinic_

“Another trypanophobe?” Macy heard a familiar voice call out. _Wait—was that—_

“Cora!” she exclaimed, spotting her supervisor holding a hypodermic needle as Harry gasped, turning a shade paler, if such a thing were even possible. “And, er…yes, you could say that—”

“That needle looks… _huge_ ,” Harry gulped, as he began sweating profusely, backing away toward the open door—

Which swiftly closed, courtesy of Macy’s telekinesis, as the two witches stared down at his trembling form.

“C’mon sweetie, it’s not _that_ bad,” Macy walked over, helping him up, guiding him to the nearest chair. Locking eyes with Cora, she mouthed, _get it over with—now!_ Cora disappeared into one of the rooms as Macy murmured soothing words and sweet nothings in Harry’s ear.

The older woman returned minutes later, and sat beside Harry, taking Macy’s place. “An alcohol swab, standard procedure,” as he nodded silently, resigned to his fate. “So, what do you and Macy think of the local town?”

“Well…” This was certainly something he could talk about. “Macy’s off in the lab so I do the majority of the comings and goings. It’s quite satisfactory, really, the farmer’s market’s quite lovely, such bountiful fruit and vegetables. And the _preserves!_ Pumpkin butter, apple butter, pineapple salsa, mango chutney—they really do know their courgettes too—” Harry stopped and peered up at Macy. “ _Right,_ so, when’s this flu shot?”

“Oh,” laughed Macy. “It’s already done—” Harry looked over to his left shoulder, spotting a tiny adhesive cartoon Superman bandage. “And it looks _adorable—”_

Neither of them noticed Cora place a rice grain-sized object in the pocket of Harry’s trousers.

_10:30 am, Mid-Autumn 1994, College Town_

_Last seen headed due northwest, toward college town,_ her app read, tracing the rice grain-sized tracker to Harry Greenwood’s pants pocket. Cora descended the clinic stairwells to the underground tunnel connecting all buildings together, an ingenious concept to avoid frostbite in the winter (and parental lawsuits associated with such weather-related hazards), where she transformed into a feathery aviary creature, escaping through a crack in a semi-subterranean window.

_10:35 am, Mid-Autumn 1994, College Town_

After Macy and Harry both received their flu shots, massaging their shoulders to avoid muscle knots, they departed, hand-in-hand, for the local college town square. “Is this where you go, when I’m at work?”

“After my morning workout regimen, yes. Fresh air is _so_ nourishing for the soul. Not to mention the free samples at the farmer’s market—there!” Harry pointed out the billowing canvas tents in the distance, mason jars stacked and glistening with preserved fruit spreads and picked vegetables. Macy noticed a bushel of dried chili pepper decorations hanging from end-to-end, as if a garland, adding a bit of color to the cloudy autumn atmosphere, as a crow alit on a skywards tree branch, its eyes staring narrowly at the unsuspecting pair.

“Oh, look at the jam! This could come in really handy, y’know, the pectin,” Macy couldn’t help but remark as Harry kissed her cheek. _His captivatingly exquisite scientist girlfriend, always dreaming of her next experiment…_ ”Carrageen’s messy, agar’s too dense…what about—”

“Pear jam with genuine vanilla bean?” Harry completed her sentence, holding up a pale muscadine green jar. _Twenty dollars,_ it read.

“That sounds too delicious to experiment with—what if it explodes all over the pillows?” Macy tilted her head in contemplation as an elderly man gave a start, wondering what on earth the young couple was doing with jams and jellies in their intimate life. “Oh God—not like _that—_ ” she tried to explain as the elderly gentleman hobbled away hurriedly, one hand grasping the top of his tan fedora. He’d heard _quite_ enough for one day. She sighed. _Whoops._

“Pumpkin jam? Lavender apple jam?” Harry pointed at two more jars, both of which Macy plucked and studied carefully.

“I’m not much a fan of lavender, it’s too… _itchy_ ,” she remarked, as Harry stared at her, befuddled. _Too… itchy? Of all the—_ “But the pumpkin jam,” Macy continued, “has possibilities.” She turned to him. “See, if we spill it, the scent of cinnamon, squash, and cloves’ll linger. Organic potpourri. Neither too spicy nor… _extra._ And for the affordable cost of…$5, we can use as much as we want. I think that’s a win. Don’t you?”

“ _Quite_. I like the way you think, love.”

Macy called the cashier over, indicating her wares—one jar of pear vanilla jam, and three jars of pumpkin jam. Three jars would get them through the first pectin experiment, that much she knew for certain. “Would you like a sample?” the cashier indicated tiny paper cups, each filled with a single pretzel stick and a dot-sized portion of spread, while bagging Macy’s items and receiving her payment in cash.

“Certainly!” Harry strode over before Macy could get a word in edgewise. “Ooooh, _cranberry!_ And is that _cinnamon apple strudel_ sauce?”

_3 pm, Mid-Autumn 1994, Ambient Lounge_

After a delicious lunch (pastrami and roast beef sandwiches on toasted sesame sourdough), the pair returned to their lounge, where Macy stowed the jam jars. Three jars on the oversized desk, and one in the fridge for whenever they wanted to feel fancy. _Or something like that._ She walked back to the desk.

Taking a deep breath, Macy grasped a jar’s lid, popping off the top with a _hiss_. Donning her gloves and goggles, she pipetted within, drawing a sample size which she placed atop an already-prepped petri dish. _Initial experiment phase one: exposure to the elements and durability. Phase two: dropping a dried sample of Scythe’s ‘crumbs’ atop said petri sample, to gauge reactions._

The one silver lining of Scythe knocking on Vera Manor’s door was that it had left biochemical traces—rust-brown-and-green powder—which Mel was so kind as to scoop up and bag the other day, once an initial test was done as to whether the substance was infectious. Apparently, after several weeks drying outside, its contagion level was nil.

Basically, after the pumpkin jam’s phase one outcome, assuming all went well, she would have all substances enter phase two of her experiment—isinglass, carrageen, agar, and pectin (pumpkin jam). As it stood, isinglass was fragile, carrageen maroon and foamingly messy (its green counterpart no different), and agar powder had potential (assuming she didn’t overdo it). She had high hopes for pectin.

_3:30 pm, Mid-Autumn 1994, Outside Cubic Frost Glass Window of Ambient Lounge_

The crow continued following the homing beacon, instinctively tracing it to a certain forgotten converted teachers’ lounge where state-level music competitions were held.

_Really? You brought her here?_

Understanding it would be near impossible to penetrate a magically-enforced corridor barricade, the bird landed just outside the cubic frost glass window, wiping the mist off and staring through one of its transparent edges.

At first, she saw nothing, but upon closer examination, spotted a pair of goggles—protective wear—a table—and gelatinous samples, aligned in a row of petri dishes. _Petri dishes she recognized as being from the workplace._

She would’ve pegged the lady for a thief if it weren’t for the carrageen. The fresh cylindrical bundle was rarely found outside the coast of Ireland.

_At least Macy wasn’t selling the samples on the black market? But what was her motive? Why couldn’t she do her trials within the confines of the laboratory, like a normal person?_

Another thought occurred to her.

_Was Macy a mad scientist—the next Dr. Frankenstein?_

_Next Morning, 10 am, Mid-Autumn 1994, Biochemistry Laboratory_

“I don’t know what you do in your spare time, Dr. Vaughn,” Macy gave a start. She hadn’t ever recalled Cora calling her “doctor.” That was an ominous sign, coming from her. “But thievery isn’t tolerated.”

“I-I have no idea what you mean—” Macy sputtered.

“My petri dishes are missing. _Will I see them again?”_ Cora’s face was inches from her own as she lifted her visage from the 1980s-esque microscope, which felt positively ancient.

The young woman took a deep breath. “Is it stealing if they’re returned? Technically, the accurate term is ‘borrowing.’”

“All’s I can say is, no underground market shenanigans and no code of conduct violations, _especially_ stealing. The department’s hemorrhaging funds enough as it is—” Cora paused, realizing she was beginning to ramble. “ _Capische?”_

Macy nodded silently.

“ _Good_. Now pipette those samples. They won’t analyze themselves, and I haven’t gotten all day—” as Cora turned and left.

_6 pm, Mid-Autumn 1994, Ambient Lounge_

“I think she knows,” she murmured in between bites of Harry’s green beans _almondine,_ perfectly _al dente_.

“That’s preposterous,” he huffed. “How would that even be possible? We’re very discreet about our comings and goings—”

“I know, Harry, I know.” A thought occurred to her. “Harry, empty your pockets. _Now._ ” He did so, his fingers brushing against what felt like a single grain of rice. Pulling it out and placing it on the kitchen table before them, he stared at the tiny silicone wiring within, practically microscopic in nature.

“I knew it!” Macy exclaimed. “She’s been tailing us,” she said by way of explanation, as Harry appeared thoroughly confused.

“H-how did—” he stuttered, at a loss for words.

“The only time you saw her was—” their eyes widened.

“ _The flu shot.”_

_6:15 pm, Mid-Autumn 1994, Ambient Lounge_

“Now what?” Harry found himself asking. He didn’t much fancy walking to the farmers market with the tracker in his pocket knowing Cora was following his every move. Nor could he dispose of it, for Cora would know instantly, based on “The DaVinci Code” book he’d read earlier.

“I say…” Macy paused, recalling a similar situation in “The DaVinci Code,” “we bury it in a piece of soap and throw it into a passing garbage truck to throw her off the scent.”

“So it shall be done.”

_5 am, Next Morning, Mid-Autumn 1994, Town Square Rooftop_

“Think this’ll work?” Harry spoke anxiously.

“Only one way to find out—” as Macy hurled the tracker, buried deep within the bar of soap, down to the garbage truck idling below at a red traffic light. “And… _done._ ”

_11 am, Mid-Autumn 1994, Biochemistry Laboratory_

_It wasn’t like Cora to be_ …Macy checked her watch again. _Three hours late._ One had to wonder how many buildings the garbage truck covered if it really took the woman this long—

All of a sudden, the stench of rotten bananas hit her. Turning around, she spotted Cora, immaculately dressed, though her hair was extremely disheveled, her hands bearing two cans of Glade air freshener spray each to ward off the ever-growing odor of discarded refuse.

“Rough morning?” Macy inquired with a straight face, biting her lip to avoid bursting into laughter.


	21. Naissance of Hallows Eve

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Macy reflects on Halloween parties and family secrets, recalling the night Maggie was born. That night in particular, Harry holds down the fort and performs a memory charm on Ray. Dexter visits Marisol, who helps Macy get a full scholarship to Exeter Academy.

21 Naissance of Hallows Eve

_“Maybe, someday, you’ll understand what I did, and maybe, someday, you’ll find it in your heart to forgive us.” -Dexter Vaughn to young Macy, as recounted by Melanija Paradis, Ch.21, “Callahan: A Gothic Tale”_

_4:45 pm, Seven Weeks In, Mid-Autumn 1994, Ambient Lounge_

A colorful indigo-and-gold piece of paper caught her eye as she made her way back to the ambient lounge. Upon closer examination, she realized it was an open invitation to a fraternity Halloween party. As a child, she’d loved trick-or-treating with her father, but things changed in the early 2000s, and it was the discovery she had a biological younger sister born that evening that finally put the puzzle pieces in place.

_5 pm, Halloween Night, Early 2000s, Vaughn Residence_

_It’s time,_ the text read. Dexter stared harder at the screen, as if to impart himself to Marisol’s side at Hilltowne Hospital, a few states away, knowing such a thing were impossible, not without a Whitelighter, and Harry was busy tying things up over at Vera Manor. Without a moment’s hesitation, Dexter conducted an internet search and booked a round-trip flight to Hilltowne, Michigan. If everything went according to plan, he’d be able to say a quick greeting, then pop home in time to wish Macy goodnight… _after trick-or-treating._

He groaned, remembering he’d promised he would take her trick-or-treating this final year—“the last year of childhood”—Macy called it. She’d been looking forward to it, talking of nothing else for the past two months, meticulously scouring the vintage shops for fabrics and dress styles to create her costume for Alice Ball, African American chemist who pioneered the most effective treatment against leprosy in the early 20th century. Granted, it was a modest costume, with long hanging robes that looked more appropriate for a doctoral graduation ceremony, but Macy was unique like that, and it made him love her all the more.

“Dad, where’s your costume?” he heard a familiar voice pipe up. He spotted Macy in her flowing, draped garb.

“Mace, about that…” his voice trailed off. “I have emergency business to attend to tonight. Neighbor Sylvia’s gonna have to take you this time—”

“But _why?_ ” Macy whined, disappointment creeping in. “I got all As this quarter, picked my own outfit, did what you promised—”

“Sweetie, I know—it’s just—your mom—”

“She’s in a cemetery—that’s what you said—”

“Right,” he swallowed hard. “And I’m gonna have to give you a rain check—this one time—”

“Like all the other times you go away for business?” Dexter froze, realizing just how perceptive his daughter was.

“I work hard to provide for this family, young lady—”

“But _all_ you do is visit her in Hilltowne—the cemetery—” _Whew._ He found himself able to breathe once more. _So she didn’t know the whole truth._

“That’s not true—"

“She’s DEAD. And she’s NEVER COMING BACK!” Macy hollered. “ _I’m_ here—I’m _lonely—_ and _I’m_ the one alive—” and she ran up the stairs, slamming the door behind her as she began to sob in earnest.

_7 pm, Halloween Night, Early 2000s, Vera Manor_

The door swung open as Ray marched inside, huffing and puffing under the weight of several suitcases which he left in the entryway. By now, he imagined, Marisol would be cooking him something delicious, Mel would be running up to him for a hug, and he’d regale them with stories of his last Indiana Jones-style adventure.

Instead, the house seemed eerily quiet, save for a quick movement in the sunroom. Curious, he closed the door behind him and walked there, stopping short upon spotting a well-suited gentleman wearing a cummerbund, perched in _his_ armchair, reading _his_ newspaper.

“You!” Ray exclaimed. “ _I know you_ —you’ve visited Marisol—what’ve you done with my family?”

“Hello to you too, Ray. Harry Greenwood, I don’t believe we’ve been formally introduced,” as the British accented man held out his hand, which Ray took after a moment’s hesitation. _He didn’t seem the type to tie his family up in the attic._ “I’m a platonic friend of Marisol’s.”

“Er—right,” Ray replied. This was a weird homecoming to say the least. “Where’s Mel?”

“Upstairs asleep. She’s out like a light. Read her a bit of Virginia Woolf, which she expressed a great deal of interest in—”

“And my wife?”

“Hilltowne Hospital—”

“ _Come again?”_ Ray moved closer until he was inches away from Harry. Though Harry himself was a few inches taller, he felt uneasy at Ray’s sudden shift of mood.

“Please. _Sit_.” Harry motioned to the armchair, using his own powers of persuasion, as Ray proceeded to do so. “I’m assuming you don’t know?”

“Know what?” Ray’s brow furrowed, thoroughly perplexed.

“Your wife’s in active labor as we speak—”

“Wait, she’s…” Ray gulped. “ _Pregnant?”_ He blinked in shock. “What— _how?_ There’s no way—is there?”

Now it was Harry’s turn to be confused. “Beg your pardon, ‘no way’?”

“That the baby’s mine—I mean—”

Harry’s eyes flared—whether it was from utter lack of sleep, reading Virginia Woolf for the fifth time, or having his hand in a vice grip, escorting Marisol to the hospital— _he’d heard enough._ Conjuring kerchiefs from thin air to bind Ray’s wrists to the armchair, he narrowed his eyes at the human before him. “ _Ray.”_ The word rolled off his tongue as the man continued to pull his limbs fruitlessly from the twisted fabric vines. “Just—listen to me—” as Ray finally gave up the struggle, meeting his own visage. “ _Don’t ask questions. Go to your wife._ Marisol is alone and scared.”

“But I’m probably not the fath—”

Harry laughed without a hint of his telltale glow as Ray shrunk further into the armchair. “Blood alone does not a father make.” With a twist of his wrist, the kerchiefs binding Ray’s wrists disappeared as Harry kneeled at his side, inches away. “ _Get your arse to the hospital NOW.”_ Without so much as a word, Ray sprang from the chair and after doubling back to grab his wallet and car keys, hightailed it out of Vera Manor as Harry performed a minor memory wipe so that Ray would forget Harry had ever been there.

_8:20 pm, Halloween Night, Early 2000s, Hilltowne Hospital_

He raced into the hospital room, reaching over to grasp Marisol’s hand as she made one final push, followed by the cry of a newborn’s wail. “You came,” she murmured, as Ray found himself holding the baby in his arms, tears welling up despite his earlier memory-wiped misgivings.

“I wouldn’t miss this for the world,” he answered. “What’s her name?”

“Margarita,” Marisol answered. “Her name is Margarita.”

_11 pm, Halloween Night, Early 2000s, Vera Manor_

_Margarita’s healthy & alive. Ray’s driving back, _the text said. Harry turned off his Blackberry, a bit of technology provided to all Hilltowne faculty free of charge, as he poured himself a glass of Chardonnay, a nightcap for this hair-raising evening. “ _Destiny reasserting itself,”_ he muttered to himself, performing a toast to no one in particular.

_Midnight, Halloween Night, Early 2000s, Hilltowne Hospital_

A floral bouquet and a small teddy bear entered Marisol’s vision as she found the light switched dimly on, suspecting— _hoping_ —it was _him_.

“You took a risk in coming here,” she smiled at the man who took a seat at the bedside chair.

“It was the least I could do,” he chose his words carefully, “given what you’ve gone through.”

“ _We—”_ she murmured as he took her hand in his.

“We can’t let our guard down again,” he continued. “Though that _was_ a memorable New Year’s Eve—” his eyes twinkled.

“The _very_ best,” she agreed.

_12:15 am, Halloween Night, Early 2000s, Hilltowne Hospital_

After turning over Marisol’s pillows and fetching her a strawberry kiwi smoothie from the 24-7 cafeteria downstairs, she motioned him toward her nightstand, where he pulled out an envelope. “Open it,” she urged, and he did, noticing a fancy crest and the words “Congratulations on your admission to Exeter Academy!”

“W-what _is_ this, Soley?”

“Exactly what it looks like. I pulled some strings and got Macy in with a full scholarship using the school records you emailed me.”

“This is _amazing,_ ” Dexter murmured.

“She’s gifted. Cultivate that, Dex,” Marisol replied simply.

“You know I will.”

_12:30 am, Halloween Night, Early 2000s, Hilltowne Hospital_

“It just breaks my heart though…”

“What?” Marisol asked.

“…That Macy’s not growing up with her sisters. She’s growing up isolated, and it’s just not fair. To her, I mean,” Dexter quickly added.

“But if we do this right, they’ll have decades to catch up.”

_12:45 am, Halloween Night, Early 2000s, Hilltowne Hospital_

“Can I trust Ray to raise her well?”

“His eyes glowed the moment she was in his arms. Even though he’s clumsy, inept _even,_ I think he’ll be good to her.”

“Ok. Ok, then. Also, open this after I leave—” Dexter stood, kissing Marisol’s forehead as he placed an envelope in her lap. “I love you,” he whispered, moments later, looking back at her one final time before making his departure.

“I love you too.”

Several minutes later, she tore the envelope open to find a single sheet of paper within with the following words:

_Forever apart, always in my heart,_

_I love you both, for a thousand eternities—_

_And more._

_Dex always had a way with words_ , she mused to herself, tears spilling down her cheeks. “ _I know,_ ” she whispered to the empty room, save for herself and tiny Margarita, her chest rising and falling with every breath. By ( _highly_ ) ironic twist of fate, Ray was now the de facto father of this child.

_And so it would be._

_Just as the stars foretold._

_8 am, Next Morning, Early 2000s, Vaughn Residence_

“Dad, I’m sorry I was so mean yesterday—Sylvia and I had a fun time—” Macy called out from the kitchen table, where she’d prepared two bowls of cereal, one for herself, the other for Dexter as a peace offering of sorts. “Did you talk to mom?”

“It’s ok. And yes, sweetie, I did.” He sat down beside her. “Also, this came for you in the mail,” displaying the letter Marisol provided him late last night as Macy pored through its contents.

“ _Exeter?_ A _full_ scholarship?” Macy exclaimed incredulously. “But…” a worrisome thought occurred to her. “Where _is_ Exeter?”

“Several hours away. It’s a boarding school and you’re gonna live there full time.”

Noticing his daughter beginning to tear up, he continued. “Maybe, someday, you’ll understand what I did, and maybe, someday, you’ll find it in your heart to forgive us.”

She stared at Dexter.

_Who is ‘us’?_


	22. Scarlet Letters and Societal Norms

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Macy tries to surprise Harry with a vintage find, only to discover she’s wearing Charity’s old ballgown from the night Charity cheated on Harry with Alistair. Marisol tries a few ways to straighten little Maggie’s curly hair, the presence of which risks revealing Ray’s not her father, these vignettes emphasizing the importance of authenticity and self-love.

22 Scarlet Letters and Societal Norms

_“In a society that profits from your self doubt, liking yourself is a rebellious act.” -Caroline Caldwell, @The_Female_Lead_

_8 am, Six Weeks and Three Days In, Mid-Autumn 1994, Biochemistry Laboratory_

Macy strode in, on time as usual, stopping short as she noticed her usual spot was occupied by a tall pale teen—or man—with purple-tipped spiked hair and a Grateful Dead shirt. Her PMS symptoms had been hitting her lately, and today was no different. “Excuse _you_ ,” she sniped, her arms crossed, glaring at the person who had the audacity to claim her seat for his own. She saw what appeared to be the remnants of a warlock-based experiment—green shadows intertwined with azure—which disappeared almost immediately.

“Who died and made _you_ queen?” the male retorted, scribbling something incomprehensible in his faux Goth notebook before slamming it shut and staring back at Macy as he slowly rose from his seat.

Despite him being a good inch taller than her, she stood her ground. “I am a _Charmed One,_ ” she hissed. “ _Who the hell are you?”_

“MACY— _OFFICE—NOW._ ” She groaned, hearing Cora’s voice from the entryway. _Dammit. In trouble, and it wasn’t even noon._

_Noon, Mid-Autumn 1994, French Brasserie, across the street from Biochemistry Laboratory_

“…And that’s when Cora wrote me up for insubordination,” Macy finished explaining as Harry took another bite of his croque-monsieur.

“As well she might— _ow!—_ ” Harry yelped as Macy kicked him under the table. “What on earth was _that_ for?”

“Not taking my side. How was _I_ supposed to know that was Dima, as in ‘famous talked-about Ukrainian Dima?’ He doesn’t exactly look the part—” as she took a bite of her _boeuf au jus_ sandwich, its drippings soaking through the toasted baguette.

“How _does_ one look, if one is a scientist then?” inquired Harry, with a twinkle in his eye.

“Smart. Buttoned up. No torn jeans, or if they are, you have a lab coat to cover it—don’t get me started, I’m irritable as _hell_ right now—PMS—”

“What can I do to make it better?”

Macy paused, mid-rant, puzzled. “It?”

“Your PMS,” Harry clarified between chews. “Surely I can alleviate the…burden?”

“Well…” she thought aloud. “I can’t find any dark chocolate bark thins, the company making them wasn’t around till 2013. Halo Top didn’t get huge till 2017. If you can find really, really fancy dark chocolate, that’d be _amazing_. Probably impossible, but _amazing_.”

“I’ll do my best,” Harry replied, making a mental note to inquire at the farmers market.

“On a different subject,” continued Macy. “What’s your opinion on Halloween parties?”

Harry mulled this over before replying. “It depends who I’m going with.”

“Me?”

“In that case, I’d love to. Macy Vaughn, _are you asking me out on a Halloween date?_ ”

She grinned coquettishly. “ _Maybe.”_

_5 pm, Mid-Autumn 1994, Ambient Lounge_

When the topic of Halloween came up after lunch, Cora had mentioned something about an orange book, studded with black lettering on a rainbow bookshelf, in such a subtle way Macy was sure she’d misheard. _But just to be sure…_ she glanced at the orange tomes atop the bookshelf. _Apricot, peach, light orange, tangerine orange, orange with black lettering—bingo_!

Macy withdrew the book, heavier than at initial glance, its spine, however, barely creased with use. Opening it to a random page, she gave a start— _there_ , in full display, was Charity and Harry at a Halloween gala—possibly several years before, by the looks of it. She was dressed as a feathered Victoria’s Secret angel, and he appeared her Goth angel counterpart, full ebony feathers and all on what looked to be a roguish biker’s jacket.

_Who are you, Harry Greenwood?_

Rather than question him of his past proclivities, she decided to google the nearest vintage costume shop, which was fortunately within walking distance.

 _Heading out,_ she texted. _Will be back soon._

_6 pm, Mid-Autumn 1994, Vintage Costume Shop_

She found herself in the dressing room, surrounded by a somewhat unsettling array of funhouse-esque mirrors capturing every angle—every imperfection— _every seeming asymmetry_. Paging through the orange tome she’d brought with her, she had honed in on a scarlet floor-length gown, its beaded laced trimming seductive as all getup…

_6 pm, Mid-Autumn 1980s, Halloween Gala_

The swell of the stringed quartet filled the hallway parlor as the guests made their way upstairs to the dance hall. “May I?” Charity nodded as she took the British gentleman’s hand, stepping upward, lifting her scarlet-and-raven-hued dress to avoid tripping. After they had landed in the exquisite, expansive space filled with Baroque art and an ostentatious crystal chandelier, its pieces far too numerous to count, she promptly disappeared.

 _Where are you?_ He ran his fingers through his chestnut hair, his heart pounding. _Charity, where have you vanished?_

He spotted her, moments later, making eyes at a man by the name of Alistair Crane, his electric blue eyes positively hypnotizing the woman. “She’s a goner,” a lilting voice rang out, startling him as he turned around to find himself face-to-face with Fiona.

Harry sighed. This gala wasn’t going at all how he’d envisioned it—impressing the crush of his academic career. Instead, he was alone. _A wallflower._ Except…a thought struck him. “Fiona, will you have this dance?”

She smiled. “Anything for a friend,” as they glided toward the dance floor, unaware a crow was silently surveilling the scene from an adjoining window, its beady eyes greedily drinking in the wearer of the scarlet-raven gown and its nefarious suitor.

_You look beautiful, my dear._

_7 pm, Mid-Autumn 1994, Ambient Lounge_

The scarlet-and-raven-hued laced gown hadn’t been as pricey as she imagined, but perhaps it was due to the current dollar value measured against inflation. She tried it on again in the bathroom and hearing Harry come in with dinner, opened the door.

“Surprise!” she twirled around as Harry’s visage noticeably blanched.

Barely able to contain himself, he dropped the groceries on the kitchen table then orbed directly in front of her. “ _Take that off—NOW.”_

“But Harry, don’t you like it?” Oblivious, she continued to sway, until he grabbed her wrist—

“ _Harry—”_ she yelped, attempting to pull away. “You’re hurting me!”

Instantly remorseful, he dropped his hold as she massaged her wrist. “Harry, _what the hell_?”

Turning away and counting slowly to twenty, Harry took several lungfuls of air before replying. “Charity’s gown—how did you get it?”

_Oh….ooo..kay?_

“Um,” Macy uttered in a tiny voice. “Vintage costume shop…? Down the street?” Massaging his temple, Harry sat down at the kitchen table as Macy returned to the bathroom, practically tearing off the now-oppressive garb, in favor of her dark leggings and flowy t-shirt. “I-I’m sorry Harry, I saw a picture of you and Charity,” indicating the album in her purse, “from the bookshelf, and I wanted to figure out how to impress you for Halloween—” as Harry stared at the tome.

Macy raised an eyebrow. “ _What?_ ”

“Love,” he breathed, “I don’t _need_ or _want_ to be impressed. I just…want… _you_. And whatever Halloween event you invited me to—not a gala, please, those things are _dreadful—_ ”

“N-no, not a gala—”

“Oh thank God—”

Now it was Macy’s turn to be confused. “But…those photos—you looked like you were having fun—”

Harry shook his head. “Charity wore that gown the night she seduced Alistair Crane—”

Macy’s mouth formed an “O.” “Harry, I’m _so_ sorry, I had _no_ idea _—”_

“It’s not your fault. What are the odds?” he chuckled weakly.

“Right…so, uh, the party I’m thinking of, is at the botany greenhouse with cute décor, kind of small-town cute,” she stated matter-of-factly.

“That sounds _lovely._ ”

_7:30 pm, Mid-Autumn 1994, Ambient Lounge_

“Harry,” Macy spoke as they began assembling dinner together, “did you really mean it?”

“Mean what?” Harry inquired, looking over her shoulder as she peeled carrots into the sink.

“That you didn’t need to be impressed—that all you wanted—was— _me_?”

Hugging her from behind, he whispered, “Absolutely. _Every word._ ”

_7:35 pm, Early-Mid 2000s, Maggie’s Bedroom_

“Mommy, that burns!” Marisol removed the heated instrument from her littlest one’s hair, determined to straighten every kink and coil of her lovely curls, to avoid suspicion of her parentage. She’d tried hair relaxers the week before but decided against them after reading a series of scientific journal articles on carcinogenic and reproductive issues.

_Straight hair hid secrets._

She hated doing this to her Margarita, knowing it was purely out of her own New Year’s Eve illicit liaison with Dexter three years before, but Maggie’s hair was coming in very curlicued, which she knew did not run in her own family, nor in Ray’s.

_Dark, wavy tresses. Not sprightly, wild curls._

Having had a sudden burst of inspiration, she withdrew a tiny glass bottle of pink and purple powder from her pocket, muttering a glamour spell under her breath, as Maggie’s hair straightened itself in an instant.

_There. All set._

“Isn’t your hair _pretty_?” Marisol exclaimed to the preschooler, who squinted at her own reflection in the dresser mirror.

“I _liked_ my curly hair,” pouted Maggie.

Marisol sighed. “I know, sweetie, I know.”

_7:37 pm, Mid-Autumn 1994, Ambient Lounge_

Harry and Macy sprang apart, startled by a vibrating buzz coming from the walnut countertop. Macy checked her phone. _Maggie._

 _Scythe’s a face-shifter,_ her text read.

Macy began typing. _Don’t you mean—“phase-shifter?”_

_No. Face-shifter. Terrified a bunch of preschoolers when it went into a soccer mom._

_Oh jeez,_ Macy replied. _Casualties?_

_One. But lucky—_

_Why?_ Macy asked.

 _It went into a rabid deer that jumped off a cliff. All moms and kids ok. But Scythe’s still alive,_ Maggie responded.

 _Ok. Thanks for the update._ Macy made as though to switch her phone off, when it buzzed once more.

Maggie, again.

 _On a cheerier-non-Scythe-glamour note…_ her youngest sister typed, attaching a photo of herself with sprightly, lively curls, the likes of which Macy had never seen before.

“Oh Mags, you look _so_ glamorous! _So_ beautiful!” Macy murmured aloud in a reply voice text, showing the photo to Harry, who concurred wholeheartedly.


	23. Just a Bit of Hocus Pocus

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dr. Cora Callahan transforms into a crow, attempting to interrupt Macy and Harry’s Halloween date night at the ambient lounge, as does Mel, Jordan, and Maggie, much to the pair’s consternation. All Hacy wanted was a peaceful evening together...

23 Just a Bit of Hocus Pocus

_“It’s a full moon tonight. That’s why all the weirdos are out.” -Dani, “Hocus Pocus”_

_8 pm, Six Weeks and Four Days In, Mid-Autumn 1994, Ambient Lounge, Yoga Nook_

_It went into a rabid deer that jumped off a cliff. All moms and kids ok. But Scythe’s still alive._

Maggie’s text echoed in the recesses of her mind as she turned her attention to the movie of the evening—“Hocus Pocus.” Surrounded by glittering tea lights overhead, she saw Harry approach bearing a tray laden with freshly-popped popcorn, sparkling cider, and what appeared to be—?

“Gourmet dark chocolate from the market,” he finished her unspoken thoughts with a subtle smile as he laid the tray on the floor in front, breaking off a tiny piece to feed his PMS-affected girlfriend, who closed her eyes, savoring its bittersweet taste and what seemed to be hazelnut and almond notes.

“Harry, you’re the best,” she murmured.

“I aim to please,” he replied, his eyes twinkling, as he began playing the film from Macy’s laptop. They drew closer, their visages angled _just so_ for a kiss worthy of Venus and Cupid, when—

_TAPTAPTAPTAPTAPTAP—_

The pair shot apart as Macy strode to the source of the noise, the frost glass cubic windowpane. A crow, its beady eyes calculating, was perched just outside, hell-bent on in its solitary mission to make Harry and Macy’s lives as miserable as it possibly could.

“Go! _Shoo!_ ” she hissed at the unyielding creature, its head upturned for a second more, before resuming its incessant ruckus. Macy scanned the room for items to thwart the errant aviary creature. _What do crows like?_ She recalled her book report on blackbirds from grade school. _Perhaps they like shiny things?_

She turned back to face the crow, but it had vanished, almost as if into thin air. _Had she imagined the creature?_ Brow furrowed, she closed the blinds then returned to her seat in the yoga nook. “What’d I miss?” she asked.

“I paused it, so, nothing, luckily. Sparkling cider?” he offered her a glass flute brimming with the _jaune_ -hued beverage.

“Ooooh, yes _please_.”

_8:30 pm, Mid-Autumn 1994, Ambient Lounge, Yoga Nook_

Nibbling on a second piece of dark chocolate, Macy took another sip of her sparkling cider as they watched Thackery Binx become transformed into a cat, then saw how the time sped to present-day scenery. _Boy meets girl. An adventure ensues…_

“I must say, I’m surprised nobody picked up on the cat being Thackery,” Harry remarked. “I mean, the signs were all there—"

Macy laughed. “Harry, humans are really narrow-minded. Like, agonizingly so. Even if you shoved the cat in front of them and it talked, they’d think it was an instrument of evil—”

“True. The poor boy—”

_TAPTAPTAPTAPTAPTAP—_

She groaned. _There it was again. But what if—?_ She recalled the first day she met Cora, the latter woman’s blackbird-esque ring glittering. And the way Cora had single-mindedly attempted to track them. Not to mention the times she herself had surveyed the collegiate landscape, noticing a dark-hued bird intent on scrutinizing their every move. _What if…what if Cora were the bird? What if they were one and the same?_ “Um, Harry—” she paused.

“Yes, love?”

“Can…” she hesitated. “Can humans turn into birds?”

“Hmmm…based on your sister Mel becoming a fly for that nearly ill-fated hot second, I would hazard to say… _yes_ , it is certainly possible. But ill-advised—”

“Right. But Harry, can humans turn into birds…of their own free will?”

He made a face. “That sounds _utterly_ preposterous—whyever on _earth—_ ” he sputtered.

“Hear me out,” Macy interjected. “What if—and I know this is a stretch—what if there were women with the ability to change into crows and back again? And what if that’s what ties the Sarcana together? Marisol and Charity were involved with the Sarcana. What if Cora’s…an _aviary_? A _human aviary_?

_8:35 pm, Mid-Autumn 1994, Ambient Lounge, Yoga Nook_

“I mean, it makes sense, right?” Macy continued. “Cora’s blackbird ring, how she’s been tailing us, the tracker, how she spent hours hunting it down but her clothes were pristine—her family ties to Charity—the crow rooting out our abode—”

Harry’s insides turned to ice. “ _We’ve been infiltrated!”_

“The good news is she still can’t get in, so our enchantments are working, right?” Harry nodded, hope creeping into his heart once more.

“…Which means Cora’s relegated to being a mere nuisance?” He posited.

“Exactly. And I have an idea—” she leaned into his ear, whispering the plan she had brainstormed in the past half hour.

_8:50 pm, Mid-Autumn 1994, Ambient Lounge, Yoga Nook_

Fifteen minutes passed, and the twinkling lights were strung up in a concentrated upper-right curtained corner of the frost glass window, surrounded by random bits of Macy’s faux gold costume jewelry she managed to squirrel away prior to departing Vera Manor those weeks earlier.

“I miss the twinkle lights,” she mock-pouted as Harry resumed the film once more.

“ _I don’t,_ ” he replied, bending forward, his lips meeting her own, as they parted, their tongues inveigling themselves within the other in a passionate _langulaire_ tango, her buxom orbs making contact with his brawny chest—

_TAPTA—_

Macy grinned cheekily to herself, noticing the sound halt mid-syllable as the crow’s silhouette traveled upward to the upper-right corner, toward the glittering tealights and ostentatious jewelry. _And that’s that._

_8:53 pm, Mid-Autumn 1994, Ambient Lounge, Yoga Nook_

Watching the little girl trick-or-treat with her older brother not to mention a swarm of other kids, Macy reached for Harry’s hand, squeezing it tightly. _So much nostalgia, this._ She remembered the days of yore, going from house to house in whatever scientist’s costume she dressed up as, her father waiting dutifully at the end of the driveway, encouraging her to walk up on her own like the independent-minded girl he was teaching her to be. Those lessons had started early.

It really _was_ quite a long time ago. She remembered when a neighbor kid knocked on their gated front door, requesting to use their home telephone, vaguely reminding her of several days before, when she accidentally tried dialing Maggie’s cell phone instead of texting her. The soundwave frequency was muddled, heavily distorted, as a startled Macy found herself playing hot potato with the screeching device before it bounced onto her and Harry’s bed, its battery thoroughly drained.

Luckily, her phone had recovered once recharged, but she didn’t want to risk another phone call in case emergencies arose on either temporal plane.

_8:55 pm, Mid-Autumn 1994, Ambient Lounge, Yoga Nook and Kitchen_

Her phone buzzed. “Keep the movie going,” she instructed Harry, flipping to her messages.

_Fresh Scythe samples. -Mel_

_Ok, thanks…_ Macy typed back.

_In the purse. -Mel_

_Ok…? -Macy_

_Check it now -Mel_

_I’m in the middle of a movie night cuddled up with—_ Macy paused and deleted the last phrase before retyping. _I’m in the middle of something…_

 _Oooooooooh?_ Followed by a winking emoticon, then a deadpan emoji. _But srsly sis, fridge them NOW._

Rolling her eyes, Macy rose from her seated position, conjuring the referred-to purse, which whizzed straight into her hand.

“Mel?” Harry asked by way of explanation. Macy nodded.

“A fresh sample too,” she remarked, deciding she was too lazy to take the sample out, thrusting the entire purse in the fridge. _I’ll deal with this in the morning—_

_Oh wait a second…_

She reached for her phone. _Mel, how did you get fresh samples anyway?_

The text message (…) ellipses ensued for a couple of suspenseful minutes before she’d heard a response.

_Scythe stopped by again._

Macy’s mouth dropped open. _Again???_ She typed quickly. _WTF’s it want now?_

 _‘It’ is a he/him,_ Mel’s curt reply came instantaneously. Clearly, she was stalling.

 _Ok, ok—so WTF’s he want now?_ Macy clarified before shooting off her message.

 _He asked for you by name._ She felt a sudden chill. _Ohhhh shiiiiiiiiiii—_

“Everything ok, love?” Macy gave a start.

“Ummmmmmm…” her voice trailed off as he orbed over, spotting Mel’s latest text.

“This confirms we made the right choice in leaving,” he remarked in a surprisingly calm voice, rubbing her shoulders soothingly in an attempt to calm Macy down. “You realize that, right?”

“Yes,” she acquiesced to his touch, “but it doesn’t make any of… _this…_ any easier.”

_9:10 pm, Mid-Autumn 1994, Ambient Lounge, Yoga Nook_

Harry pressed “play” once again. Sixteen minutes later, he’d heard a buzz from his own phone. _Jordan._

“What _now?_ ” asked Macy, growing increasingly frustrated at their inability to have a serene cinematic evening.

“Fantasy draft,” he exclaimed excitedly, though toned himself down somewhat at Macy’s now dour expression. “Sorry, I—”

“Go ahead, text him your favorite football players—” Before they’d left 2020, Jordan had been teaching Harry the ins and outs of the American sport.

“Are you sure, love? I mean—”

Macy sighed. “Do it before I change my mind,” as he positively squealed with glee, his fingers typing away.

_10 pm, Mid-Autumn 1994, Ambient Lounge, Yoga Nook and Kitchen_

She watched as Winifred and her sisters chased the young trio through the cemetery on vacuum cleaners, as their own broomsticks had been snatched away by innocent youngsters. Having completed his draft pick for the 2020 season, Harry nestled his visage in the crook of Macy’s delicate sloping shoulder, brushing away her mahogany curls to plant a sensuous kiss as she gave the barest hint of a shiver—

_Buzz. Buzz. Buzz._

“ _Are you_ _seriously shitting me_?” Macy hissed, breaking away from Harry’s heady touch as he suppressed a groan.

She checked her texts.

_Maggie._

_You really shouldn’t keep condoms in the fridge ;) -Mags_

Macy strode to the fridge, opening it to find the enchanted purse pulsating ever-so-slightly. Taking a deep breath, she unclasped it, emptying its Scythe contents into the nearest faded Tupperware plastic container, as several additional foil-linked packages spilled forth. _What the—oh._

 _Really?_ Macy texted back. _FFS, Mags…condoms were invented in 1920. We’re not in the Stone Age y’know…_

 _Just in case,_ her youngest sister texted back, including a sly-smiling emoticon.

_10:05 pm, Mid-Autumn 1994, Ambient Lounge, Yoga Nook_

“Oh _my,”_ Harry breathed, having crept up silently behind Macy. “There’s certainly a _lot_ of them…”

Macy bit her lip and turned to face him. _Who was she kidding? She’d never see the end of “Hocus Pocus” at this rate,_ as her eyes fixed on the foil packets, which sailed above their heads and landed with a soft _thump_ on their shared bedspread shortly thereafter.

_But, truth be told, given her solitary upbringing, she wouldn’t have it any other way._


	24. A Birthday Revelation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Macy begins to test gelatin on Scythe samples. In a flashback, Maggie celebrates her fifth birthday, and Ray realizes that he’s not her biological father.

24 A Birthday Revelation

_“That cuckold lives in bliss, Who, certain of his fate, loves not his wronger:…Who dotes, yet doubts, suspects, yet strongly loves!” -William Shakespeare, Act 3, Scene 3 “Othello”_

_8 am, Six Weeks and Five Days In, Mid-Autumn 1994, Biochemistry Laboratory_

The next day, Macy noticed Cora stumble in wearing ostentatious Jackie-O sunglasses, avoiding any trace of sunlight whatsoever; the laboratory shades had been pulled down far in advance.

“Rough night?” Macy called out to the older woman, who muttered an obscenity under her breath before stalking out to her adjoining closet-sized office, slamming the door behind her so hard that several test tubes rattled precariously close to the desk’s ledge.

“What’s eating her?” She heard Dima’s voice behind her.

“Haven’t the faintest idea,” she smirked, continuing her stage two experimentation—Scythe remnants versus four major types of gelatin.

_2 pm, Early-Mid 2000s, Maggie’s Fifth Birthday Party, Vera Manor_

Maroon 5 played in the background as he awaited his little girl’s presence so the festivities could finally begin. Marisol had really outdone herself this time, decorating the entire house with a bevy of glittering purple streamers that had to have cost a pretty penny. The theme was supposed to be a “pretty purple unicorn ballerina.” Mel retorted a month earlier that there was no such thing—how could a quadruped be anything that graceful—causing Maggie to throw her vegetables on the floor and storm up to her room in a huff. An apology and a sisterly hug ensued shortly thereafter, but Ray never forgot the seeming contradiction—a unicorn and a ballerina.

_And speaking of contradictions…_

“DADDY!” he turned around and swung a curly-haired girl up in the air as she giggled all the while.

“Margarita,” he mused, “you must be the prettiest unicorn ballerina in _all_ the land—” He carried her over his shoulder, introducing her to several of his archaeology colleagues who’d shown up. Patrice, a new hire, stroked Maggie’s curls and smiled up at the doting father.

“Why if those aren’t the prettiest curls! Ray, those are some gorgeous West African genes!”

Ray’s brow furrowed in confusion. “My daughter’s got Latin roots, not…” he paused, “African. Marisol must’ve curled her hair earlier—” oblivious to the fact Marisol was a highly-skilled witch in the way of concealment charms and glamour potions.

“You’re kidding, right?” Patrice replied. “I’d recognize that curl anywhere,” she continued, gesturing to her own hairstyle in turn. “My fifteen Guinean cousins, and aunts and uncles too, across the Liberian border—”

“Right…” a lingering doubt began to creep into the forefront of his mind as he turned to greet his other colleagues.

_One Hour Earlier, Early-Mid 2000s, Maggie’s Bedroom, Vera Manor_

“Sweetie, let me just—” Marisol tried to maneuver herself into a comfortable seated position to the side of her youngest, who pouted before the dresser mirror.

“NO!” Maggie shouted. “I don’t _want_ straight hair! I want _my_ hair!” Her eyes began to well up as Marisol threw her hands in the air, exasperated. “ _My hair…my hair…_ it’s my birthday, mommy, and I want _my_ hair…”

Normally, Marisol would’ve forged on ahead, straightening Maggie’s hair with a twist of a brush and glittering green powder, but between the streamers and two rambunctious daughters not to mention a mostly absentee husband, she’d had enough.

“ _Fine—”_ Maggie looked up in shock. _Really, mommy?_ Marisol nodded. “Just for today,” she hastily added. “Then glamour potion as usual.” _Our little secret._

_3 pm, Early-Mid 2000s, Maggie’s Fifth Birthday Party, Vera Manor_

The more he thought about it, the more it made sense, as another Maroon 5 song played.

_Her heart belonged to someone else._

How long would he remain in denial? Watching Maggie and Mel interact in the kitchen, he could see plain as day that Mel was his spitting image—straight raven hair, olive skin, his nose. Maggie on the other hand, had wavy hair, a nose that neither matched his nor Marisol’s, eyes rounder than any family member on either side of the family— _and where had that wild sprightly set of curls come from?_

A sudden chill hit him in that very moment.

_Those curls—they were real._

There was no way Marisol or any other human being could have manufactured such curlicued tresses on a tiny child in such a short amount of time and with limited expense.

_He was not Maggie’s biological father._

Rather than scream, shout, or do any number of things that would draw attention to this fast-unfurling family drama—and seeming web of lies—he would go upstairs— _yes_ —gather his wits about him in their bedroom. _Check her nightstand drawer, maybe. What was the worst he could possibly find?_

_3:30 pm, Early-Mid 2000s, Maggie’s Fifth Birthday Party, Master Bedroom, Vera Manor_

His finger brushed up against a folded piece of paper, tucked in the furthest edge of Marisol’s drawer. _Should I?_ he wondered, before curiosity got the best of him.

_Forever apart, always in my heart,_

_I love you both, for a thousand eternities—_

_And more._

Ray’s hands shook as his breath came out in gasps. _No. No, no, no. NO!_ Clearly, her heart belonged to another, and based on the tone and tenor of the emotional outpouring, this lothario was far better a lover than he could ever be, in this lifetime or the next. He knew that he, scholarly nerd Ray Vera, didn’t stand a chance against— _whoever he was._

Their marriage had been rocky, and he knew he’d played a part, being gone for weeks, months at a time on one archaeological dig after another. He hadn’t realized just _how_ rocky though. Based on the letter before him, his marriage was dead on arrival, and had been for quite some time.

_What is my duty to Mel?_

_What do I owe Maggie?_

A surge of anger pulsated through his veins as he punched a hole in the wall just above the nightstand, luckily obscured by the hideous antique lamp that belonged to Marisol’s great-aunt. He couldn’t go on living a farce, and he couldn’t subject two kids to his anger—two innocent kids. It was time for him to go away and carve out a new life—a new identity, even—for himself. He put the paper back in the drawer, closing it once more—

“Daddy?” He turned and saw Maggie standing in the doorway. “Are you ok?”

“I-I’m fine, _mija,_ ” he murmured as he approached her tiny form. “I’m fine.”

_Next Morning, Early-Mid 2000s, Master Bedroom, Vera Manor_

Marisol blinked, adjusting her eyes to the buttery sunlight enveloping their bedroom, before noticing Ray’s side of the bed appeared suspiciously neat. As if he hadn’t slept in it at all. After a couple more minutes, she dove into their closet and noticed that every single one of his bowties had vanished. His loafers, too. Just then, she heard a tentative knock at her door. _Maggie._

“Come in!” and the little girl did, making a flying leap for the large bed. “ _Margarita Emilia Vera,_ ” Marisol whispered, a cue for Maggie to pay close attention (full name and all), “what happened to daddy?”

Maggie pondered the question for a couple minutes. “Yesterday, he looked there—” pointing at Marisol’s nightstand drawer, then he made a dent in the wall,“ indicating the spot hidden by the antique lamp, as Marisol blanched. Realizing her husband had absconded, she pulled her littlest one closer as she noticed Mel’s shadow in the doorway.

“Mel, come in—you too—” as the middle schooler shuffled to the bed, hopping on the side not occupied by her little sister. “Things are going to change around Vera Manor, but know that I…and,” she swallowed hard, “ _your father_ , love you both _very_ much.”

“Mom, what’s going on?” Mel asked, a certain suspicion entering her mind as Marisol gave her a pointed glance, then looked over at Maggie. _Be careful what you say._

Marisol took a deep breath, vowing to not break down in front of her girls. “You’re better together, your differences are your strengths, and nothing is stronger than your sisterhood. You know that, right?” Mel and Maggie solemnly nodded as she whispered a few Sanskrit words initiating the binding spell that would mute their powers until they were of age. _For their own safety. To lead normal lives. To maintain a modicum of childhood innocence._

_So it was written, so it was done._

_Present Day, 1 pm, Kitchen, Vera Manor_

Maggie heard her phone buzz. After a busy morning at work, she’d arrived home for a late lunch. Monitoring Macy’s experiments had mostly fallen to Mel, but she herself had been keeping track of the various uses of pectin, not to mention a mental rolodex of glamour potions. Such potions would have dual uses—one being the upcoming Halloween festivities (past and present)—the other being when Macy would return to face Scythe in the flesh, whenever that day would come.

Instead of a text from Macy, she found one from Ray.

 _I love you mija,_ he’d written. _Blood alone does not a father make._

 _I know,_ she replied after several minutes’ contemplation. _I love you too, papi._


	25. Of Plumes and Phase Two Trials

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Macy initiates Phase 2 testing of different forms of gelatin on Scythe samples, hoping for a scientific breakthrough. Harry comes to the rescue when an experiment goes awry, reassuring Macy while she suffers from momentary self-doubt.

25 Of Plumes and Phase Two Trials

_“Do the best that you can, but also, you’re great as you are.” -@missmads, YouTube vlog 10/25/20_

_11 am, Same Day, Six Weeks and Five Days In, Mid-Autumn 1994, Biochemistry Laboratory_

Macy re-examined her labelled-by-number petri dishes—each with a trace amount of Scythe—and the isinglass, carrageen, agar, and pectin in separate containers inches away. Of course, like any good scientist worth their salt, she had a control sample of Scythe bits, which she would examine in the hours to follow. Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed Cora peering through the doorway, staring at her charges through her Jackie-O sunglasses. Behind her, Macy sensed Dima’s movement, guessing he was putting together an experiment of his own.

Her experimental procedure was as follows: two drops of isinglass in petri dish 1, two drops of carrageen in petri dish 2, two drops of agar in petri dish 3, and two drops of pectin in petri dish 4. The control was housed in petri dish 5. _This wouldn’t be too bad, right? Just a couple of drops. Not much risk of catastrophic damage in two little drops…right?_

Taking a deep breath, she unscrewed the container of isinglass extract, pipetting the substance, tapping her middle finger against its plastic to rid it of air bubbles, before placing two drops exactly into the awaiting petri dish 1. Noticing condensation beginning to gather, she drew closer, grabbing her notebook and pen to jot down observations. _Oh wow,_ she gasped, noticing a series of soapsud-like clusters gathering, increasing by the minute. _This was definitely interesting—absolutely—_

_THWACK!_

Macy’s head snapped back as the clusters— _punched her in the face?_ She blinked hard, shaking her head to ensure she hadn’t suffered any odd muscular damage. Luckily, she wore her lab goggles, so all she needed to do was reach for a paper towel from the shelf above her—and wipe the residue—

_But why wasn’t it coming off?_

_And what was that fishy smell?_

Oh God. _Isinglass was composed of air bladders…of fish._

_11:45 am, Mid-Autumn 1994, Biochemistry Laboratory_

Distilled water was a lifesaver. Not only had it rid her goggles of smoky sticky _pesce_ , it had helped clean her work station and helped to sanitize and deodorize the laboratory minutes before Cora performed her hourly check-in (ostensibly, to make sure nobody burned the building down by accident). The Glade air fresheners did help a great deal too.

_Isinglass: foam bubbles, malodorous, physically unpleasant (wear goggles, have Glade and distilled H2O on hand)_

_Use for Scythe: stinky distraction/more trouble than worth; 2/10 do not recommend_

She closed her notebook and sighed. Carrageen was next.

_12:30 pm, Mid-Autumn 1994, Biochemistry Laboratory_

After nibbling at the crunchy toasted peanut butter and vanilla pear jam sandwich Harry had packed her, she dusted the crumbs off her blouse, went back indoors, and found herself at her workstation once more, staring at petri dish 2, carrageen.

Basically, she was looking for a gelatin substance that would, ideally, break down Scythe’s compound structure—dissolve it, burn it—she didn’t care how. _That shouldn’t be too complicated, right? One would think._

“You know that is illegal, right?” Macy jumped as she heard Dima’s voice behind her.

“I have no idea—”

“You are making homebrews, yes?” he replied. “For the winter?”

“Err… _homebrews_?” Macy’s face bore a puzzled expression as Dima sorted through his mental rolodex of English equivalents for _horilka, morosha,_ and _Spotykach_ , various forms of alcohol.

“How do you say…” he paused. “Secret _moonshine_?” making a _glug glug_ motion with his other hand.

“NO!” Macy exclaimed, then, seeing the door open, lowered her voice. “ _No,_ I’m _not_ making winter homebrews—" she hissed.

“Just saying,” he tossed both hands in the air. “If you do you could—”

“What?” she found herself asking. “Be expelled? I don’t even go here,” she scoffed.

“ _Nyet,_ I mean—” he drew closer to the partition separating his desk from hers. “You could give it to me, and I’d give it to my uncle, and we could make a profit and split it three ways—”

“ _Look_ , Dima,” Macy responded in a deadpan expression. “I know you mean well, but _no,_ I am _not_ brewing illegal alcohol, and no, I am _not_ selling it on the black market—”

“Ok, have it your way.” Dima really _was_ quite infuriating, from the tips of his purple hair to the threaded ends of his latest Goth rock band t-shirt. “Being a postdoc doesn’t always keep the lights on—”

“I manage well enough—” she retorted, clenching her jaw as she began to pipette the viscous substance.

_1 pm, Mid-Autumn 1994, Biochemistry Laboratory_

_Well, this was certainly an unexpected development_. After a couple of droplets and time spent staring out the corner of the shuttered window, she found the sample of Scythe, petri dish 2, had vanished. As in, _poof,_ gone. Neither hide nor hair. While this would ordinarily be cause for celebration, Macy knew her laws of thermodynamics and matter/anti-matter principles well enough that the substrate’s disappearance wasn’t by any stretch of the imagination _permanent._

_Carrageen: no reaction apart from disappearance_

_Use for Scythe: seamless disappearance; 7/10 recommend for temporary displacement, possibly ineffective re: permanent destruction_

Redoing this experimental portion would be risky—she imagined a secret anti-matter repository of fast-accumulating biohazardous waste in a separate temporal plane—and rather than risk environmental damage that way, she decided it was best to proceed with the next substance—agar.

_3:30 pm, Mid-Autumn 1994, Biochemistry Laboratory to Women’s Restroom_

She felt a harsh spray of water as she fled the laboratory for the women’s restroom several hallways away. It started innocuous enough, with her pipetting the two droplets of agar onto the bits of Scythe in petri dish 3. Fifteen minutes had passed, in which time, the dried seaweed setting agent thickened into a glassy marble blob, which came as no surprise to Macy, who knew the substance was thicker than other gelling agents.

Excited, she’d watched the blobbed droplets surround the Scythe sample, as the rust green bits began dissolving, turning a shade of denatured brown. _Slow and steady_ , for the next half hour after that, while Cora bade them both farewell, ducking back into the hallway and flying home with a swoop of her wings as Dima too, called it a day soon after. She too was tempted to take off, but something drew her close to the petri dish once more—a tuft—no, a _plume_ of smoke! Coughing, she summoned the fire extinguisher from the faraway wall, pressing its nozzle as she found herself rapidly engulfed in fumes.

Several tense seconds passed as she sprayed with all her might; to her relief, the smoke dissipated and all that was left of petri dish 3 was a smoldering ruin of what she guessed was Scythe—but what caused the fire—Scythe or the agar? _Knowing how agar was nonvolatile, she was guessing the former._

A sudden rush of emotion startled her in that instant, staring at her day’s labor—three petri dishes, all looking significantly worse for the wear— _“HARRY!”_ she wailed aloud as he materialized straightaway.

“Macy, _what_ _on earth_?” he gaped at their surroundings. “Where’s Cora and Dima?”

“They left early—I was testing Scythe samples—the agar one started a fire—” Macy began to tremble involuntarily and found she couldn’t stop. “I was _so_ scared,” she began. “And I need to clean myself up,” motioning to the top of her blouse, its uppermost edges dipped in sticky remnants of agar.

“Go—I’ll handle this,” he told her as a spray of water emanated from the ceiling, causing her to utter a startled yelp. _The sprinkler._

_4 pm, Mid-Autumn 1994, Women’s Restroom_

Locking herself in one of the bathroom stalls, she sank into a fetal position, finally allowing herself to sob aloud. “Why did I think I could do this?” she muttered to herself, furiously wiping hot tears off her visage, as more tears took their place, the dam having been broken once and for all. _I’m going against the greatest pestilence mankind has ever seen. Who’s probably centuries older and far more cunning than anyone I’ve ever known. I’m just one woman—one drop in the ocean—an insignificant human being—_

“ _You,_ love, are _anything_ but insignificant—” _Harry. Had she said that out loud?_

“I’m trying, Harry, but all my experiments went to shi—”

“You’ve gotten to second phase trials, which means you’re halfway through. I believe you’re grossly underestimating your abilities, Dr. Vaughn.” Despite her anguish, she felt a delicious tingle emanate down her spine. She secretly loved it when he called her “Dr. Vaughn.” _So authoritative, so domineering—_

“That’s sweet of you, Harry—”

“It’s the truth.”

She sighed. “Harry, I nearly set a lab on fire. I hardly call that progress—”

“I beg to differ. If I recall correctly, you’ve already narrowed down the gelatin possibilities to four or five, right?”

“Four—” she sniffled as she watched his form crouch below her bathroom stall door. “Harry, what on earth—?” as he crawled under its gap to sit next to her. “Don’t ruin your slacks—”

“It’s ok, love, I’ve got plenty more where these came from,” he replied with a throaty chuckle as she leaned into him, sniffing his chestnut locks that perpetually smelled of pine and cedar, and Macy couldn’t help but smile through her tears. “Mace, what is this really about?”

Several long seconds passed. “ _I’m scared_ ,” she whispered finally.

“Why? You know I’m here, and your sisters are here—in their own way. There’s no reason to be scared—and of what, might I ask?”

“That I won’t figure out how to defeat Scythe. That we’ll be stuck in 1994 forever, permanently on the run from Scythe. That we won’t ever settle down in one place, in one piece, marry, have kids, that we’ll always be fleeing,” she choked out, “ _forever,”_ as she buried her visage in the folds of his suit jacket as he stroked her shoulder, muttering soothing words.

 _Marry?_ Harry continued rubbing her shoulder as his other hand caressed the mahogany curls framing her lovely visage. _Did that mean—“_ Mace, did you say what I believe you just said?”

“That I’m terrified we’ll be stuck in 1994 forever?”

He shook his head, absentmindedly winding a tendril about his finger, his eyes twinkling all the while. “The bit about getting married.”

Macy gave him an odd look. “You bought me chewable honey-flavored prenatal vitamins, I thought marriage was a given.”

“Right, _right,_ ” he murmured. “I like hearing it aloud, that’s all.”

“But who would show up for a wedding in a pandemic, with Scythe around? _Nobody,_ that’s who—” Macy couldn’t help but gripe aloud.

“Who’s to say we’d get married in the middle of a pandemic? For all _we_ know, this thing could be over in the next couple of months—”

“You _clearly_ overestimate my scientific skillset—”

“No, Macy, I don’t. In my honest opinion, you’re _brilliant._ Just ‘do the best that you can, but also, you’re great as you are.’”

“I like that,” remarked Macy. “Where’d you hear that?”

“Oh, Madeleine Mantock’s latest v-blog entry. Very confidence-boosting, if I do say so myself—”

“Harry, I think it’s called a ‘vlog’—"

“Point is, _you can do this._ And you are _not_ alone. Tell me _,_ ” he paused. “What can I do to make the experiment go faster? How can I make your life easier?”

She reflected for a moment. “You’ve done a lot so far. Just—I guess, help me keep a written record of experiments? Make sure we have all the necessary supplies? Help me wrestle with hazardous substances? Help clear the path?”

“That sounds doable.” Harry added, after some thought, “then we’d have all the time in the world to talk weddings—and schedule one too—"

“You think so?” Macy lifted her visage as Harry softly stroked her cheek.

“I _know_ so.”


	26. Of Glass House and Great Pumpkin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Macy has a scientific breakthrough thanks to pumpkin spice jam. Macy and Harry attend a Callahan College Halloween party at the botany department whilst entertaining fantasies. Macy explains the “Great Pumpkin” to a highly skeptical Harry.

26 Of Glass House and Great Pumpkin

_“She fell into an autumn romance; her soul a harvest moon glowing to his vintage slow dance.” -Angie Weiland-Crosby_

_I found myself in Hilltowne again, my sienna-hued wedge boots crushing the dampened fall foliage as I determinedly trod through the wide wrought-iron gates beckoning me in once more, sensing an altogether familiar kinship tying me to the earth. I heard a chirp and caw, and without turning around, I knew—_

_The crow was following me. Cora._

_I hastened my footsteps, hoping to escape its wanton grasp as I heard the aviary creature cackle aloud. The apple trees—were those blue in the distance?—the thorny artichoke bushes, all became a singular blur as I tripped over an errant slate cobblestone, picking myself up quickly to find the nearest sanctuary. But there was none, and the bird knew it just as well as I._

_Hearing a rush of wind whistle past my ears, I whirled around—_

_And it was the ghoulish green of Scythe whose fangs drew near—_

_His fangs bearing close, his acrid breath inches from my visage, as he reached out to stroke—_

Macy sprang up in bed, shaking and sweating profusely. “Another bad dream, love?” Harry called out, half-asleep next to her.

“S-something like that…”

_11 am, Six Weeks and Six Days In, Mid-Autumn 1994, Biochemistry Laboratory_

Macy re-examined her labelled-by-number petri dishes—each with a trace amount of Scythe—and the somewhat varying degrees-of-smoldering isinglass, carrageen, and agar in separate containers inches away. Pectin was the only phase two experimentation left—by way of pumpkin jam she and Harry had bought awhile earlier from the farmers market. Uncorking the mason jar she secreted in her purse, she pipetted a couple of cheery marigold-hued drops, placing them squarely in the middle of the petri glass, right on top of the Scythe sample.

 _Please work,_ she silently prayed to the powers that be. _The sooner this is over, the sooner we go home._

_11:15 am, Mid-Autumn 1994, Biochemistry Laboratory_

_Wait, seriously?_ She stared at the petri dish, watching the pumpkin jam surround the bits, seamlessly dissolving it as if it was used to conquering pestilence on an everyday basis, _no biggie_. No fishy isinglass stench, no odd disappearing act akin to carrageen. No smoldering ruin brought about like agar, whose thickness reacted violently to the sharded Scythe bits which appeared molecularly similar to fiberglass under the microscope, though she couldn’t even begin to understand why. Fluffy _fiberglass_ , with its cotton candy-like threads, made of powdered glass that could slice ribbons—and rusted green _Scythe. Cross-pollination was a strange beast._

She examined the mason jar’s ingredient label: pumpkin, orange zest, grated ginger, nutmeg, cinnamon, cloves, sugar. Perhaps the orange zest acted as an acidifying cleaning agent? Ginger, she knew, held antimicrobial properties against pathogens, nutmeg was a natural detoxifier, and cloves contained antioxidants. Sugar promoted an immediate burst of energy, explaining the jam’s fast-acting nature.

Glancing to her left and right, she took a picture of the experiment’s results. _Very promising ; )_ she texted Harry, who was currently standing guard at the ambient lounge and doing a bit of controlled experimentation himself.

No sooner had she done so, she received a reply text.

 _By Jove, I think you’ve got it!_ Harry replied, with a monocled emoji, and a smiley emoticon with jazz hands.

Beaming, she began cleaning her workstation of everything save for the pumpkin jam petri dish and her control sample, for closer monitoring.

_3 pm, Mid-Autumn 1994, Biochemistry Laboratory_

The control sample appeared to be perfectly pristine, self-sustaining, and _utterly_ stubborn. At this rate, without being fed any of the substances, agents, reagents and the like, it would probably continue living undisturbed for the next six months, perhaps a year. Grasping the consequences of unwittingly hosting a known biohazard, she knew she had to proceed to phase three of the experimental process, and fast.

_Phase 3. Hybrids and/or vectors._

Given what she’d learned of the explosive properties of agar and Scythe, she knew she could dabble in hybrid compounds, mixing pumpkin jam with varying percentages of agar to create a weaponized agent against Scythe. But given limited resources and her reluctance to set the laboratory on fire ( _again_ ), she decided to skip directly to the vector component for now.

_Harry, can you ask Mel to create agar/pumpkin jam compounds at Vera Manor attic? And give all the supplies she’ll need via the purse? Time’s of the essence. Oh, and tell her to ward the eff up and wear protective gear. Goggles esp. -Mace_

_Roger that, love -H_

Ok. Vectors, then. Smiling to herself, she did a silent happy dance then and there, before hearing another buzz of her phone.

_Glamour potion’s in the purse. -Mags_

Raising an eyebrow, Macy texted back. _It’s a small shindig at the botany department, I don’t need a potion for that—_

_Trust me, you *do* -Mags_

Macy frowned and replied. _Should I be grateful or insulted? -Macy_

Her sister’s reply arrived swiftly. _I *mean* you guys deserve a nice night out. When’s the last time you two dressed up? -Mags_

 _Good point. Was it_ …Macy thought. _A year ago? More than that…_

_A year and a half -Macy_

_My point exactly. You & Harry: grab a pinch of powder, plus my sketched designs (in purse, no peeking!). Have fun you two! -Mags_

Macy laughed. This was just like her littlest sister, the glamour queen. Truth be told, she expected herself to be exhausted and too jaded for a jaunt in a greenhouse, but with Maggie’s fashion prowess, she knew that she and Harry would conquer the night…and dance the light fantastic.

_7 pm, Halloween Night, Next Evening, Seven Weeks In, Mid-Autumn 1994, Ambient Lounge_

Taking the sealed envelope in their hands, they each reached for a pinch of Maggie’s shimmering plum-indigo glamour potion.

“Bottoms up,” they spoke in unison, sprinkling the scintillating sparkles atop the other’s head, causing a lavender cloud to billow forth, engulfing them both for several extended seconds before dissipating entirely of its own accord.

_7:07 pm, Halloween Night, Mid-Autumn 1994, Bathroom, Ambient Lounge_

“How do I look? Festive enough?”

Harry drank in the delectable vision of his beloved, now clad in a form-fitting, hip-hugging, _highly_ revealing midnight lilac floor-length gown with a slit that sailed high above the knee. Her lips were a dark plum lipstick hue, her tresses falling beneath her shoulders whilst sporting a sparkling collared necklace, matching bangles, earrings, and a pair of glittering ballet-style flats. “M-most definitely,” he gasped.

“Not so bad yourself,” she remarked, studying his dapper tuxedo. “Just—look a little less— _innocent_ ,” she added, with a twinkle in her eye as he turned to the mirror and patted his hair. “Also, I think these are ours,” holding up a pair of masks—one festooned in purple-gold sparkles, baubles, and feathers, the other in black and white, modeled after the Phantom of the Opera.

“I suppose you’re right, Dr. Vaughn,” he murmured turning around to face her with a roguish smile that caused her to gasp aloud. Oh _my._

_7:30 pm, Halloween Night, Mid-Autumn 1994, Forest_

“Why aren’t we orbing directly?” Macy couldn’t help but ask, as she found herself lifting both edges of her skirt as her heels ground into the sodden leaves beneath her feet.

“To attract less attention,” Harry answered as they continued to traipse through the lantern-lit path. “I barely know the botany garden, I couldn’t very well orb us atop the hors-d’oeuvres, could I?”

Macy had a sudden and altogether sultry vision of them landing gently onto a sumptuous dining hall— _platters of sushi decorating various parts of Harry’s muscular body as she nibbled her way down—_

“ _Mace!_ ” He threw an arm out to block her path.

“Huh— _what_?” She stared at Harry, unceremoniously jolted out of her naughty reverie. “What is it?”

“ _Don’t—move—an—_ oh wait, never mind—just a squirrel—” he allowed himself to breathe once more as Macy sniffed and adjusted her gown. “Right—as you were—”

She sighed.

“What?” he turned to her.

Feeling her cheeks grow hot, Macy bit her lip. “Nothing…er…well, you mentioned hors d’oeuvres and a vision of you popped into my head…in a sensual sort of…um…way…involving…uh…sushi…in...ummm… unmentionable places…” _Dammit, she was starting to ramble again._

“ _Really,_ Dr. Vaughn? _Do_ tell—” as his hand clasped hers, he nuzzled the sensitive part of her neck, but breaking away, Macy pointed up ahead—“I think that’s the greenhouse?”

“Yes, love, I do believe it is,” he reluctantly answered as Macy strode forward. Just then, she turned.

“We’ll continue this discussion later tonight, right?” she inquired with an upward lift of her sumptuous midnight plum lips.

“ _Absolutely,_ love.” _That’s my girl._

_7:45 pm, Halloween Night, Mid-Autumn 1994, Greenhouse to Faculty Lounge to Parlor_

“Wow,” she breathed as they approached the glass enclosure, boxwoods studded with miniature glow lights, the tiled floor ahead patterned in a navy star-shaped frieze that reminded her of Portuguese prints she’d seen in an art history book on her late dad’s bookshelf decades ago. _Should I…enter?_ She hesitated.

“After you,” Harry motioned, and so she stepped past the iron threshold, finding herself surrounded by glowing lanterns, a brightly-lit bohemian carved wood chandelier overhead, a shelf of succulents to her right, a mini potbellied stove at the furthest part of the room, and a recliner inches away, draped in a luxurious faux fur blanket the color of snow.

“Oh _my_ …” The botany department certainly knew how to decorate. And this was pre-Instagram, which certainly said something, as her eyes traveled down the timber shelves, which angled themselves toward another room further in. “Can we?” Harry nodded as he led her through the greenhouse space to the next room, which appeared to be a hobbit-sized faculty lounge, sprinkled with ancient texts and fake silken cobwebs. Following the scent of freshly-baked goods, Macy found themselves within a tiny European-style parlor complete with phrenology tomes, faux marble busts, and giant cookies studded with chocolate chips.

Just as she approached a baker’s display case containing a large chocolate-studded cookie atop page 334 of an open vintage novel of undisclosed origin, she felt her abdomen cramp, causing her to gasp. “Macy!” Harry instantly orbed to her side. “Love, are you alright?” His eyes grew large with concern for her well-being, noticing her manicured nails gripping the sides of the weathered table.

“T-time of the month—” she managed to speak aloud before wincing once more.

“Do you need anything?” She shook her head.

“I’ve already got a pad on in case. But…” she glanced around, hoping to spot a beverage station. “Is there a glass of water? I need to pop a Midol—”

“Wait here.” He vanished instantly, likely hunting down the event organizer who could point him in the direction of a water fountain as she sat atop a cobwebbed armchair.

_7:50 pm, Halloween Night, Mid-Autumn 1994, Parlor_

Breaking off the edge of a chocolate chip cookie, napkin in hand, she barely suppressed a groan. “Ugh, _yes_ —” She felt the cacao powder’s caffeinated essence course through her veins as she took another bite and felt the glossy sheen of chocolate coat the back of her throat.

“ _Water?_ ” Macy glanced upward upon hearing a familiar British voice. _Harry._

“Thanks,” she exchanged her cookie for the proffered glass and popped her medication, which would easily kick in in about…several minutes or so, relieving the pain of her menstrual cramps until the next day. Taking several deep breaths, she remained where she was, taking in the festive décor and Halloween cheer around them.

“Take a bite, Harry, it’s delicious—” and he did so, chewing thoughtfully. _Is that vanilla or almond extract I sense?_ before turning his attention to Macy.

“We can leave, if you feel unwell?” Harry scrutinized Macy’s form, noticing the slight swell of her abdomen due to her monthly cycle, and her bosom, which appeared ever-so-slightly raised from her hormonal flux. Truth be told, he always had a rapt fascination about the female body, which lent itself well to his women’s studies career path, back in the day.

Usually, Macy would’ve taken him up on his offer, but surprising even herself, shook her head instead. “No, Harry. I want to spend the evening with you, here.”

Harry gave her an odd look, not unlike the glance he’d given her when she’d turned the car radio to a 1970s romance hit, long before they’d started ‘going steady,’ or whatever the common parlance was these days. _He could just imagine her tight gown, his hand sweeping the indigo fabric up its slitted inseam as she uttered the barest of gasps, squirming as he pinned her arms above his head, ravaging her plump lips, seizing kiss by stolen kiss..._

“Mace, ‘here _,_ ’ as in,” he hesitated, a low growl emanating from the base of his throat. “ _Here,_ here _?”_

Macy bit back a smile. “I think my words got lost in translation. I mean, enjoy this,” she waved the cookie in her hand, “and maybe get some fresh air? I hear the botany department’s got a fruit orchard a mile wide—”

“Oh, _right_ —” Harry’s cheeks burned in shame as he sought to will away a certain tightness _down there_. “My _sincerest_ apologies—I should’ve realized ‘spending the evening’ wasn’t a euphemism for se—”

“It’s ok, we’ve all been there,” Macy interjected, the pads of her fingers lightly stroking his outstretched hand as he exhaled shakily. _Good gods, woman. The things you do to me._

_8:20 pm, Halloween Night, Mid-Autumn 1994, Botany Orchard_

“Are we looking for the Great Pumpkin?” Macy joked as they traversed a row of blue apples, bushes of thorny artichokes, and several planter’s squares of low-hanging pineapples, finally coming upon a bountiful hedgerow of ornamental cabbage, its mauve tips glimmering in the moonlight as she knelt down to stroke a single unfurled leaf, its texture thick and hardy, yet cool and moist within.

“The Great Pumpkin? What’s that?” Harry glanced around, but there was no sign any pumpkin, least of all ones of such largesse.

“Only a 1966 Charlie Brown cartoon classic. Snoopy? Woodstock?” Macy sought to explain, as Harry grew increasingly puzzled.

“Is this ‘Snoopy’ a spy? And is ‘Woodstock’ a bundle of firewood?”

Macy burst into side-splitting laughter, quieting down after a rather pronounced minute or two. “Sorry,” she gasped, trying to regain her composure as Harry’s pride was slightly bruised. “I’m not laughing _at_ you—I swear—" she clarified. “Ok, so, there’s this boy named Charlie Brown, and he has a bunch of kid friends and a dog named Snoopy, who has a small yellow bird friend named Woodstock. Snoopy and Woodstock don’t speak _human_ languages, but they communicate somehow. Anyways, his friend Lucy’s little brother, Linus, writes a letter to the ‘Great Pumpkin’ believing he’s real even though he’s not—”

Harry frowned. “An anthropomorphic _courgette_? That sounds _very_ farfetched—” he remarked skeptically.

“Ok, well, see, it’s like Santa Claus, y’know, how kids write and ask for toys?”

“But a humanoid _pumpkin?_ What on _earth_ do they teach children these days?”

Macy sighed. “Harry, you’re missing the point. He waits all night in a pumpkin patch believing the creature’ll show up. There’s another storyline too, Charlie Brown and his friends go trick-or-treating and everyone gets candy except him.”

“Oh?” Harry tilted his head, curious. “I’m familiar with the custom of trick-or-treating. What does Charlie get instead?”

“A rock. Each time they go to a house, everyone gets candy, but all he gets is a rock.”

“How _awful—_ ” he couldn’t help but state. _That poor child, scarred for life._ “What spiteful neighbors—”

_8:40 pm, Halloween Night, Mid-Autumn 1994, Botany Orchard_

“Harry. _Harry,_ “ she stood and reached over to stroke his chestnut hair, inhaling the familiar autumn scent of cedar and pine. “I think it’s a metaphor for life. Things get terrible sometimes, and all you can do in that moment is survive, thrive, and find humor where you can.”

“Interesting…” he murmured. “And _very_ true,” he continued, kissing her squarely on the lips, noticing how her curvaceous goddess-like figure glimmered in the luminous moonlight, their masks long forgotten, likely lost between a cerulean apple and a hard place. “Perhaps we can watch the film tonight?” he asked as he spun her about before engaging in a slow, silent dance to a heretofore invisible accompaniment of contemporary jazz. _From another era. Another life._

She nodded, her head atop his shoulder. “I could probably find a bootleg version on YouTube.”

_9:45 pm, Halloween Night, Mid-Autumn 1994, Ambient Lounge_

“That WWI biplane aircraft depiction is _wholly_ inaccurate! And cross-species kissing whilst _apple bobbing?_ What on _earth—”_ his protestations faded as Macy stroked his broad, muscular shoulder.

“Remember what we said earlier in the cabbage patch, Harry?” as she raised an eyebrow.

“Survive, thrive, and find humor where you can?”

“Exactly. _Exactly_ ,” she murmured. “And maintain a healthy dose of imagination. In the words of Albert Einstein, ‘imagination is more important than knowledge…[for] imagination embraces the entire world, stimulating progress, giving birth to evolution.’”

“Indeed, Dr. Vaughn, _indeed,_ ” as his fingers threaded their way through her mahogany curls, lush and wild and free.


	27. Love Looks Better on You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Macy continues her phase two, part two trial on pumpkin jam and agar to defeat Scythe. She has a flashback to Dexter’s last moments in the hospital, and what he asks of her.

27 Love Looks Better on You

_“Coming, coming from the bottom/Better learn how to dance/Find, find what you’re made of…My love looks better on you/My love looks better on you…” -Alicia Keys, song “Love Looks Better”_

_I found myself in Hilltowne once more, my sienna-hued wedge boots crushing the dampened fall foliage as I determinedly trod through the dormitory quad, its somber grey stones filled with secrets and sadness. Making my way to the nearest covered building, I passed a squawking crow perched along a lantern and found myself in the alcove outside a seemingly modern amphitheater. “New Student Orientation,” the placard read._

_My mind raced; didn’t I already have an apartment? How would I choose my allegiance? Decide between the comforting stillness of my endroit versus the cacophonous camaraderie that only neophyte academia could bring? Was that where I had arrived from, that postwar hardwood setup, with its corresponding pair of men, men from my past, men who had wronged me, slighted me, wounded me? Men who knew not the meaning nor the practice of the very word ‘love’ itself? Atrocious bedfellows, those ghosts of my past…_

_Before I could protest aloud, I found a drink shoved in my hand. “Drink,” the unseen voice commanded—_

_And I awoke in Spain—or something akin to it—with its Gaudi turrets and cornucopia of verdant semi-tropical foliage, but perhaps I was mistaken—spotting a labelled “Bucharest Tower” taller than the Empire State Building, thrice as tall as Vegas’ Bellagio, I knew such a structure could only be in the United Arab Emirates, with its grandeur. Where and when was I? I viewed this as if a bird myself, sweeping upward effortlessly to kiss the sky…_

_Then, blinking, the scenery washed away once more, to reveal the insides of a large cushioned 9-seater van. “Your hair’s straight,” the class president remarked. But how did I know who was in charge?_

_“Who, me?” The driver nodded as I gasped, scrambling, for my curls, my luscious curls, had been replaced by something else entirely—and just as entrancing, apparently. Long, flowing hair, thick between my fingers. In that moment, my subconscious prickled, as though I were missing someone, but knew not who or why or from where. Tears formed as I sought to recollect who or what had been wiped from memory, but try as I might, I couldn’t remember…_

_6:40 am, Seven Weeks In, Mid-Autumn 1994, Ambient Lounge_

Macy sprang up in bed. “Another bad dream, love?” Harry called out, half-asleep next to her as she bore an odd expression.

“Sometimes,” she posited aloud, “I think you’re the last good man on earth.”

“Love,” he remarked, tucking a stray curl beneath her ear before kissing her forehead, “methinks it’s the red tide hormones. And I’m a Whitelighter, being good _is_ inherently in my nature—”

“Just take the win, Harry,” Macy interrupted. “ _Take the win—”_ as her lips met his, their bodies wrapping around the other in soporific yet sumptuous delight as they faced another dawn in anno domini 1994.

_8 am, Mid-Autumn 1994, Biochemistry Laboratory_

Subtly checking herself in the window’s reflection and patting her slightly-tousled hair, a direct result of that morning’s earlier romp between the sheets, she noticed a white envelope at her workstation.

_Payday._

Amidst her efforts, laboratory and otherwise, to defeat Scythe, she almost forgot she was being paid by the university. _Almost_. She ripped open the seam, revealing a not-insignificant amount of money in the form of a check. Thanks to her mobile banking app, it would appear in her account almost instantaneously. Banks only checked for signatures and amounts, never the year (to her knowledge, at least).

Before commencing her part two of phase two pumpkin jam/agar compound experimentation, she regarded herself in the mirror once more, just to check—

“We haven’t got all day, Narcissus!” a familiar voice rang out as Dima snickered a desk away. Rolling her eyes, Macy reached for her samples in the adjoining fridge and began her morning taskers. _Nice to see you too, Cora._

_11 am, Mid-Autumn 1994, Biochemistry Laboratory_

Macy re-examined her labelled-by-number petri dishes—her newly-created ones, that is.

Sample A: 0% agar/100% pumpkin jam

Sample B: 25% agar/75% pumpkin jam

Sample C: 50% agar/50% pumpkin jam, and

Sample D: 75% agar/25% pumpkin jam.

Agar’s volatility could be of use provided it didn’t scorch a building, and pumpkin jam was an effective agent against Scythe bits. If she could mix the two together in just the right amount, perhaps two good things would make something… _great._

_Right?_

Her phone buzzed. _Anniversary of Dexter Vaughn’s passing,_ it read, as she gave a sudden start. _Had it really been that long? It seemed like yesterday she was saying goodbye to him in the intensive care unit…_

_Flashback, Noon, Mid-Autumn 2017, Hospital near Vaughn Residence_

“Poor thing,” the plump woman whispered to her coworker as they stared across the hall to a beautiful twenty-something woman, her mahogany curls woven into a tight braid.

“What a perfect daughter,” her coworker responded. “Heard she shows up every other day, stays till closing.”

“How unfortunate,” another nurse chimed in. “The circumstances,” he added, as the other two nodded sadly. Sudden terminal illness, devoted single father, an only child, and palliative hospital care with no hope of a cure. _Six to eight months tops,_ so the initial diagnosis came and went.

“I don’t have much time—” Dexter’s voice rasped in a whisper as Macy drew near. “A great career? I know you’ll do that, but promise—me—”

“Yes, Dad?” She wiped the perspiration from his brow, a result of the cocktail of numbing medications delivering him of his physical agony.

“Promise me, after I’m gone—”

“ _Dad, don’t talk like that!”_ her voice trembled. _Do not cry. Do not cry. Not in front of him. Keep it together, Mace,_ she told herself. _Don’t let his final moments with you be disheartening ones—_

“Let me finish.” Macy fell silent, an unacknowledged tear splashing onto her cheek. Then another. “Macy,” he croaked. “I’ve done my job raising you. But promise me—”

Her brain swirled with possibilities. What— _work harder? Longer hours? Get tenure?_

_Anything._

_Anything at all._

But no. “Promise me you’ll open your heart—find a wonderful man—one you’d be proud to introduce your pops to—if he were still alive—”

“Oh, _dad,_ ” she swallowed hard, unable to continue further, lest she lose her composure entirely, as she clasped his hand. This was not what she expected him to say at all.

He chuckled and coughed. “I’m not saying run after the first guy you meet off the street—” they shared a brief laugh, “just—I want you to be happy. Love looks good on you,” Dexter smiled weakly. “No moping about—I didn’t raise a layabout. Dance more, enjoy life sensibly. Find your sisterhood. Do you,” he wheezed, “understand?”

She nodded, squeezing his hand in silent agreement. In the background, she heard the familiar hum and beep of his vital signs, this time at a slower pace. She assumed “sisterhood” was a coded term for posse, her group of best friends, her besties, her crowd of trustworthy female friends that meant the world to her—not sisters, since she was most definitely the only child of a single father. _No sisters there._

Dexter gestured to the nightstand. “Letter, for you,” he said as she pulled the knob, revealing a long thin envelope. Opening it, she read the words “acceptance” and “offer” and “Hilltowne University.”

“Your pop pulled some strings—” he murmured in response to Macy’s questioning glance. “A close friend there heard you’re a top geneticist. Think of it as…” he paused, searching for the right word, “…a clean start.”

_3 pm, Mid-Autumn 1994, Biochemistry Laboratory_

Macy re-examined her labelled-by-number petri dishes—her newly-created ones, that is.

Sample A: 0% agar/100% pumpkin jam

She’d only had time for the one. Her mind was clouded, fixated on the past yet again, and she understood there was no way on earth she’d be productive today. And much to her consternation, she hadn’t been. The moment Cora left (Dima had long since disappeared, claiming his experiment ate itself), Macy departed for the ambient lounge.

_4 pm, Mid-Autumn 1994, Ambient Lounge_

Alicia Keys’ “Love Looks Better” played in the background just as the door swung open. Peering over his newspaper, Harry noticed a somewhat teary-eyed Macy. He realized what day it was when he’d seen the calendar notification earlier that afternoon, deciding to take his cues from her— _it was her father, after all—_ though he was amazed by the level of fortitude she exhibited.

“Mace…what can I do to help?”

She shook her head. “Nothing,” stifling a sob. “But—I could _really_ use a hug,” as he drew closer, enveloping her in the wear and warmth of his arms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was inspired by American Ballet Theater's IG @ABTofficial Pas de Deux episode featuring Alicia Keys collaboration with ballet dancer Gabe Stone Shayer


	28. The Eleventh Hour

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dexter wishes he could visit the islands where his family's from. Marisol visits Dexter late at night on his deathbed. Macy finds a missing ingredient to her pumpkin spice jam/agar to use against Scythe, thanks to her mother.

28 The Eleventh Hour

_“Beauty lives in the extraordinary breadth, of Love known fully until one’s death.” -Angie Weiland-Crosby_

_11 am, Seven Weeks and One Day In, November 1994, Biochemistry Laboratory_

Macy re-examined her labelled-by-number petri dishes—her newly-created ones, that is.

Sample A: 0% agar/100% pumpkin jam—result: Scythe remnant consumed, mess-free

Sample B: 25% agar/75% pumpkin jam

Sample C: 50% agar/50% pumpkin jam, and

Sample D: 75% agar/25% pumpkin jam.

Agar’s volatility could be of use provided it didn’t scorch a building, and pumpkin jam was an effective agent against Scythe bits. If she could mix the two together in just the right amount, perhaps two good things would make something… _great._

_Time to prepare Sample B._

How much volatility was sufficient? Was there enough pumpkin jam to balance possible ensuing chaos?

_Only one way to find out._

Her mind continued to wander, thinking of the day before, and how, years ago, it was the last time she’d seen her father alive. If she had been in a better state, she would’ve wondered why no other family member, direct or otherwise, paid a visit besides her. But in the family she knew back then, it had always been just the two of them. And she, for one, knew better than to question anything her father said of their family history, of which he noted was somewhat Portuguese Azorian.

_Flashback, Early Afternoon, November 2000, Vaughn Residence_

“As in, the Azores? Like, as in the islands?” she recalled her kid self asking as Dexter had nodded.

“But why haven’t we ever gone back?” her inquisitive nature shone through. “Why?”

“Because, Macy, there’s a thing called money and we’ve got enough, but travel like that costs thousands of dollars. Thousands of which,” he added, “could be used for other things. Like a college education.”

“Still,” reflected a young Macy. “It’d be nice to go back sometime, right?”

“Maybe,” Dexter smiled enigmatically as they went back to building a puzzle together on their living room coffee table.

_1 pm, November 1994, Biochemistry Laboratory_

Sample A: 0% agar/100% pumpkin jam—result: Scythe remnant consumed, mess-free

Sample B: 25% agar/75% pumpkin jam—result: ditto, slight smoldering, 1x1x1 cm across

Sample C: 50% agar/50% pumpkin jam—result: smoldering, untenable, miniature storm cloud

It seemed as though the golden ratio of the experiment was somewhere around A and B, which meant extreme precision and perhaps just a drop of agar essence was sufficient. Macy wiped her brow, realizing she was the only scientist left in the room, as Dima had the day off and Cora was on her umpteenth coffee break. _Phase 2 was complete…right?_

But something seemed to be missing. Even if she’d gotten the proportions right, certain tweaks could be added so that the formulary would be improved. _Pumpkin jam, 1 tiny drop of agar essence…_ she paced about the room, wracking her brain…

_Flashback, 11 pm, November 2017, Hospital Near Vaughn Residence_

“Did you give her the letter?” Dexter didn’t have to open his eyes to know who was speaking. _Soley._

He nodded as she drew closer, stroking his cheek affectionately, muttering a few protection ward chants out of the side of her mouth. Taking a seat, she presented him with a small sachet. “Feverfew,” she said by way of explanation. “natural substance, dilates blood vessels, makes the brain happy, less…explosively tense. To ease your mind.”

“But Soley,” Dexter whispered, “my mind’s already at ease—you’re here,” as a tear rolled down her cheek.

Rather than dwell in her sorrow, especially beside her true love, she abruptly changed the subject. “Does she suspect anything?” He shook his head. _No._

“How did you know?” murmured Dexter. _That I’d be here, of all places…surely her abilities couldn’t have—or could they?_

“I just had a feeling. I couldn’t let the love of my life pass before saying my goodbyes, now could I?” Marisol attempted a bit of joviality in what was an incredibly grim situation. _Her oldest, left without a father. Orphaned—but not really. Her lost child—lost to her, but never forgotten._ To say things were complicated was a gross understatement.

He chuckled and coughed in response as his vital signs began to fluctuate slightly. “Carnal cohabitation,” he muttered as she clasped his hand. _Remember those letters?_ his eyes seemed to say, twinkling with amusement.

“I remember,” she answered, biting her lip to suppress a smile. “I saved them _all_. You always did have a way with words—”

“And Macy—” _please, take care of her…_

Marisol regarded him with a fixed intensity. “The letter should give her a fighting chance. She’ll do great there.”

 _Ok then._ Dexter clasped her hand tightly, squeezing three times. _I. Love. You._ Plus two more. _So. Much._

“I can’t tell you how thankful I am for our little infinities,” Marisol spoke, citing Dexter’s last letter from months ago, alluding to “The Fault In Our Stars,” as his breath grew more labored, the bedside machine whirring and beeping for seconds more—

_Then stillness._

_He opened his eyes, noticing at once that it no longer pained him to breathe, to think, to move his arms, legs—_

_To be._

_Several months in the hospital had left him with atrophying limbs—but here he was, spry as ever, whole again, as he heard waves crashing along a sandbar._

_Where was he?_

_When was he?_

_Perhaps this is forever?_

_All of a sudden, he noticed his bare feet enveloped in pearlescent sands, his fingers reaching forth, shifting a veritable pyramid of granules from one digit to another, exchanging a macrobiotic enclave for the ethereal—a shadow-free existence, a different temporal plane, a story evolving toward its infinite loops of consummate beginnings and ends._

_Was this the end or the beginning? Both?_

_He glanced ahead at the swaying feathery palm trees, the rich cerulean sky fading into cornflower tones with the barest hint of cirrus, the crisp cool ocean the hue of transparent, aquamarine glass hugging the never-ending horizon. Making his way to the shoreline, he noticed his favorite park swing of his childhood juxtaposed with the beach—_

_And he realized as he sat upon it,_

_Its grey-weathered wood intertwined with bleached corded weaves—_

_He was back in the Azores—_

_He was finally home._

_2 pm, November 1994, Biochemistry Laboratory_

Sample A: 0% agar/100% pumpkin jam—result: Scythe remnant consumed, mess-free

Sample B: 25% agar/75% pumpkin jam—result: ditto, slight smoldering, 1x1x1 cm across

 _Pumpkin jam, 1 tiny drop of agar essence…_ Macy searched through the crowd of mason jars, realizing she needed a substance that would counteract agar’s explosivity. Something that would provide a sense of calm, stability, interfere with serotonin and prostaglandin, and offer a dilation effect the likes of which modern medicine had yet to fully comprehend. She could hear, as if from years beyond— _or was it a different temporal plane_?—a serene, older female voice in the ether, instructing her to find the ingredient—which would benefit the human brain—the cerebral cortex—make things ‘less explosively tense’—'easing one’s mind’— _why did this woman sound so familiar?_

She shook her head, trying to rid herself of this hallucination. It certainly wasn’t Cora, who still hadn’t returned from her coffee break. Perhaps once this part of the experiment was over, she should go grab some coffee herself. Just then, her hand grazed a warm bottle filled with what resembled large-centered daisies, or swollen chamomile blossoms on its fast-fading label, as she had a sudden epiphany.

_Feverfew._

_The missing ingredient was feverfew._


	29. Ocean Bar 1988

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Macy recalls the days after Dexter’s funeral in which she phones a friend. Cora causes mischief in the laboratory. Dexter and Marisol (“Soley”) meet at an Australian oceanfront bar in 1988 during a business conference covering the history of holistic herbal remedies. Things get...heated.

29 Ocean Bar 1988

_“It was only a sunny smile, and little it cost in the giving...” -F. Scott Fitzgerald_

_Flashback, 9 pm, November 2017, Vaughn Residence_

There was nothing for her here, Macy realized, as she boxed up the last of her late father’s clothes to donate to Goodwill. Dexter hadn’t been a man of many possessions, choosing instead to invest in the stock market, setting up mutual funds for his daughter and funding her college education in full, fulfilling a promise he’d made to her as a child.

_She had no tears left to cry._

Like he’d said, she shouldn’t be a layabout. It was time to move on.

On a whim, searching through Facebook, she recalled a guy her age… _what was his name again? Oh yeah. Galvin._ Apparently, he lived in Hilltowne—the locale she was traveling to in just a few short days. A nice-enough person, who she’d met during a postdoctoral business trip-turned-bar crawl, before he moved (because he was _always_ moving). Numbers were exchanged, but nothing more.

Fingers shaking, she pulled out her phone and began dialing.

“Hi,” her voice trembled at the tone of the voicemail. “I don’t know if you remember me, but my name’s Macy, I’m moving to Hilltowne, and I could _really_ use a friend.”

_9 am, Two Mornings Later, Early November 1994, Biochemistry Laboratory_

Sample A: 0% agar/100% pumpkin jam—result: Scythe remnant consumed, mess-free

Sample B: 25% agar/75% pumpkin jam—result: ditto, slight smoldering, 1x1x1 cm across

Pumpkin jam, 1 tiny drop of agar essence…and feverfew. Her digits brushed the top of her workstation shelf where she’d put the feverfew jar the afternoon before, but it had vanished. Frowning, she shed her ballet flats, standing atop her rotating stool as she leaned an arm precariously on the metallic shelving above. _No dice._ _What the—?_ It seemed as though things had gone—Macy paused. _Missing?_ Not exactly. Just— _moved._ Not in the same place as before. Popping up in areas unexpected, like behind the distilled water soap dish. Or crammed between the window slats. Or in the cornertops of the blinds.

Knowing she hadn’t imbibed anything remotely alcoholic or otherwise haze-inducing, she understood there was a fairly simple explanation for the goings-on. _Cora. Moving things in the late night hours, no doubt, transforming herself into a raven and wreaking havoc on her workstation—_

“Something wrong, Macy?” she gave a start, hearing a familiar saccharine voice.

“N-no. Nothing’s wrong,” Macy muttered, striding past Cora to the apothecary shelves, no doubt hiding the feverfew she so desperately needed to defeat Scythe.

_10 am, Early November 1994, Biochemistry Laboratory_

After Cora stepped out for her second coffee break, Macy reached within her purse to text Mel.

  1. _How’s the vector going? 2. Can you buy me a bug?_



A couple minutes later, her phone buzzed. _Mel._

  1. _Sticky. Spongy. Will have something in the purse by end of week. 2. Like, a bug, ‘bug?’_



Macy grimaced at the first point. If she were to design a weapon against Scythe, she also needed a vector—a gel capsule tablet of some sort—to ingest a bit herself, as a proto-vaccine. Said capsule was supposed to be going “smoothly, efficiently,” not “sticky and spongy.” She began typing her reply.

_As in ‘hidden camera’ bug, Mel. Cora’s been hiding my ingredients (again)._

Her phone vibrated once more. _Can’t you file a complaint and have her fired? Initiate a lawsuit?_

She sighed. _No, Mel. 1994 doesn’t work like that. Not about to go six figures in debt for a mason jar worth less than $20._

_You could….-Mel_

_No. Hell to the no. -Mace_

_Fiiiiiiiiiine. Secret camera bug arriving soon-ish. Gotta do an extra shift to cover. You owe me. -Mel_

_Thxxxxx sis -Mace_

Tossing her phone back in her purse, she opened her journal to her latest scientific experimental notes. _Now, where was she again?_

_Flashback, 8 pm, November 1988, Ocean Bar Cantina, Copacabana, New South Wales, Australia_

Stirring her fizzy apple cocktail, she stared at the darkened horizon, illuminated by a bevy of scattered tiki torches and twinkling stringed lights overhead. _Apple vodka, apple juice, and lemonade, garnished with lemon slices._

_Enough to dampen her sorrows._

_But not drown them entirely._

Straightening her crimson sundress speckled with blossoms— _feverfew, not daisies, nor chamomile, thank you very much—_ she reflected on the past tumultuous months. Her prophetic powers had all but disappeared the moment she was orphaned, less than a year ago. Finding herself alone, she’d channeled her energy into her studies, and soon enough, was invited to a business conference covering the history of holistic herbal remedies in Australia, of all places.

“Ginger Bundaberg on the rocks,” a deep voice called out next to her. _Odd choice,_ she thought to herself, nursing her drink as her wavy locks glistened in the moonlight. _What guy orders a non-alcoholic ginger beer during happy hour?_

“This guy,” she heard a chuckle as her cheeks grew pink.

“ _Shit_ , did I say that out loud?” _Whoops._

“You’re Marisol, right?” he drew nearer to the mysterious woman whose raven hair reminded him of a cloudless, stormy midnight. “I’m—”

_A burst of color emanated from behind his visage, as a rapid flurry of stop-motion film flashed before her very eyes—a child she held in front of Vera Manor, with her intellect and his melanin hue—and a third child, a mischievous one, with his formidability, and her alabaster tone—_

_“The father of my children,”_ she murmured, staring.

“Pardon?”

“Oh, uh, nothing.” _Her powers…were they returning at long last? She really needed to investigate this further._

“Right, uh…the name’s Dexter. Dexter Vaughn,” he offered his hand which she shook, suddenly enveloped in his patient and warm grasp, more tender than taut, sweet rather than the typical showy brawn she had always come to expect of the opposite sex. _Life was full of surprises, that._

“So feverfew’s the fashion _de rigeur_?” he found himself remarking mere minutes later, now sipping on his ginger beer. “That’s something you don’t see every day.”

“I’m impressed you recognized it—”

“Well, we _are_ at a holistic conference, I’d be remiss if I didn’t—” as he absorbed her expressive eyes, her curvy form, down to her elegant sloping waistline, imagining the cosmic wonder within. “What brings you here? Alone?”

“The dying wish of a sorceress—” her deadpan expression gave him pause, her hand poised above her cocktail glass.

“I-I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—I just—you’re very beautiful—” he swallowed hard. “I’m awful with women. I don’t know how to flirt. It’s not second nature—”

Marisol laughed the hardest she could recall in this lifetime, and maybe even the next. “You’re forgiven, Dex. Can I call you Dex?” He nodded as he took another sip of the peppery beverage.

“Just as long as I can call you Soley.”

She grinned. “Deal.”

_Flashback, 9 pm, Same Evening, November 1988, Ocean Bar Cantina, Copacabana, New South Wales, Australia_

“So how’d you end up here?” she asked him.

Collecting his thoughts, he began to answer. “A parent’s dying wish. Not a sorceress’ though,” they laughed as he attempted a bit of humor. “Newly orphaned, thirties, absolute workaholic, alone for Thanksgiving and unable to face the fact. You?”

“Ditto.” She sipped the remnants of her apple cocktail, liquid courage coursing through her veins bit-by-bit, loosening her tongue so words could flow freely. “Where’s your family from? And why holistic healing?”

“Azores. Got into holistic remedies as a hobbyist at first, since Dora, Della, and Darcy—my aunts—were the island’s healers. Locally famous. Saved an entire village from pestilence, so the legend goes. Madalena Village is Darcy’s namesake. Middle name, I mean. Haven’t seen them in ages—money’s a bit tight—”

“Sorry to hear,” Marisol murmured, reaching out to rub his arm sympathetically as his eyes widened at her touch.

“Yeah, the only way I was able to afford Australia was—” he stopped short, deciding now was neither the time nor the place to mention his role on the speaker’s bureau, especially with folks ten times more qualified—like Soley. “Never mind, I’m talking too much. What about you? Your family?”

“We’re healers, sort of,” Marisol spoke slowly, choosing her words with care. “Some might call us witches, herbalists, custodians of nature. Others, well…” she lowered her voice conspiratorially. “Others don’t care for us very much. Biased, intolerant y’know—"

“I’m not one of them,” he dropped his tone to match hers. “I’m _very_ open-minded—”

They talked long into the night, well past closing time. Making their way to the nearby hotel where they both stayed though in different rooms, her hand reached for his own under cover of darkness. Cosseted beneath constellations glimmering above the hotel’s entrance, their whispered words gave way to murmurs, sordid murmurs turned into kisses, and torrid kisses beckoned into far more than either had bargained for at the outset as they stumbled past the umpteenth corridor, Marisol whispering directions as he carried her astride him, into her hotel room, the door slamming shut behind them as the walls began to rattle with an uncanny fervor.


	30. What We Could Be (1988)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In 1994, Macy tries to create a proto-vaccine against Scythe. In 1988, Marisol wakes up with a hangover and discovers her guest lecturer is none other than last night’s paramour.

30 What We Could Be (1988)

_“…But like morning light it scattered the night and made the day worth living...” -F. Scott Fitzgerald_

_Flashback, 8 am, Next Morning, November 1988, Ocean Hotel, Marisol’s Room, Copacabana, New South Wales, Australia_

Marisol Sanchez never considered herself the marrying type. Never impressed by the male population on hand, and peppered with infuriating comments throughout her educational career—“careful, or your brain will scare men away,” she’d long since given up hope of marriage and kids, let alone dating.

Head pounding from the apple concoction the night before, she blinked once then twice, noticing ribbons of sunlight streaming forth from the airy window to her left, its curtains drawn nearly shut. But not completely. _And to her right_ …? Without looking, her fingers reached—

And felt nothing but straightened bedsheet fabric, fixed and smoothed to near-military precision.

_He hadn’t left a note._

_Who was she kidding?_

She sighed. _A beautiful hallucination._ Of course her powers hadn’t returned. Of course she’d never have kids. Of course she’d always be alone. _Forever and always_. She had long since reconciled herself to that fact, but a man leaving her bed without saying goodbye, or at least a note with his number hit especially hard. _Clearly she was losing her touch._

_Flashback, 9 am, November 1988, Ocean Hotel, Conference Room, Copacabana, New South Wales, Australia_

Checking her watch, she gasped. Fumbling for her cup of coffee ( _thank goodness for hotel amenities_ ), she zipped out the door in a navy blue pencil skirt and matching blazer. _A sensible choice, for a woman attempting to be so. At this hour._

The moment the elevator opened upon the conference hall corridor, she sprinted into the nearest lecture series; it was imperative she take notes for _a_ course, _any_ course. Hoping it wasn’t something like “alligator aromatherapy” or “architecture of acupuncture,” she ducked into the last row of seats, setting herself down and taking another sip of coffee.

Oddly enough, the placards denoting the speaker series were replaced. _On short notice,_ a banner read. _Guest Lecturer: TBA. Right, whatever,_ she rolled her eyes. _Get on with it…_ as she heard the announcer drone on about the speaker’s expertise in Madalena Village herbs, and various articles—the usual credentials she figured, though the word “Madalena” certainly seemed to ring a bell…but then again, she’d been more than tipsy the night before…she heard a smattering of polite applause before turning to look at her printed-out schedule.

“Madalena Village and the Magic of Holistic Medicine—” a familiar voice boomed, as a sensuous shiver ran down the base of her spine. _Oh hellllll no. No way. Oh no. Nononononono—_ taking another sip of her coffee to soothe her throbbing hangover, she lifted her visage—and found her facing the guest lecturer.

_Who was none other than Dexter Vaughn himself._

“ _Hide me_ …” she moaned to herself, attempting to obscure her upper form with a scattering of pamphlets and papers being handed out like candy. But it was too late; he’d seen her that precise second. _Shiiiiiiit—_

 _Marisol? That you?_ His mouth gaped in surprise before he came to his senses, realizing he had a captive audience of eighty others to attend to. _Decorum, Dex, decorum._

_Flashback, 10 am, November 1988, Ocean Hotel, Conference Room, Copacabana, New South Wales, Australia_

After his talk ended, including the Q&A portion in which an overzealous attendee wished to ask the longest-winded questions lasting several minutes but felt like eons—because there was _always_ that one guy—he wove his way through the crowd, determined to follow the beguiling woman who sported the tightest pencil skirt he’d ever seen.

_9 am, Weekday Morning, Early November 1994, Biochemistry Laboratory_

Sample A: 0% agar/100% pumpkin jam—result: Scythe remnant consumed, mess-free

Sample B: 25% agar/75% pumpkin jam—result: ditto, slight smoldering, 1x1x1 cm across

Pumpkin jam, 1 tiny drop of agar essence…and feverfew.

Macy grimaced upon initial glance at the vector—a gel capsule tablet meant to be a proto-vaccine, that Mel managed to send through the purse that morning, crack of dawn. Said capsule was supposed to be smooth, not sticky nor rough nor rocky, and so it eventually would be, she hoped beyond hope. Several minutes later donned in gloves, coat, and goggles, tweezers in hand, she placed a hybrid mixture of Sample A and B in the empty capsule.

 _“Why. Won’t. You. Fit—”_ she grunted, attempting to stuff the shell whole with humanity’s cure against forceful pestilence, _no pressure. “Go in, dammit—”_ she applied additional repetitive force, pounding the vaguely phallic pipette against the womb-like curvature of the stubborn-yet-moist opening, as she heard Dima snicker behind her.

“Having issues, Vaughn?” he smirked behind his own plasticine goggles.

“ _Shut up.”_

“I’d stroke it if I were you—y’know, ‘love me tender’?”

“ _I’ll manage on my own, thanks,”_ she answered, gritting her teeth all the while.

“Just saying…” he shrugged, returning to his own project, which had managed to regenerate after eating itself the week before.

_Flashback, 10:15 am, November 1988, Ocean Hotel, Empty Conference Room, Copacabana, New South Wales, Australia_

Catching up to Soley and pulling her into an empty conference room, her bosom heaving, he thought she’d be happy to see him again, after their torrid rendezvous the night before. But this Soley had veritable flames coming out of her eyes as he stepped back instinctively, his back making contact with the wall behind him.

“Why didn’t you warn me?”

Puzzled, he answered cautiously. “Warn you…?”

“That you’re a lecturer—”

“A _guest_ lecturer—honestly I had no idea—it was last minute, I swear—Phil had a pending lawsuit, something about impropriety and a female TA—”

“Oh, so you couldn’t have given me a head’s-up last night, ‘oh hi Soley, lemme kiss you, I’m your teacher—no big deal,‘” she mimicked as his face grew tense.

“You know it’s not like that—” he swallowed hard. “I don’t mix work and pleasure—”

“You _lied._ By _omission,_ ” her visage drew increasingly close to his as he felt his heart race, his breath momentarily escape his senses. _Sweet Jesus, she was hot._

“I think,” he paused. “You’re scared—”

“ _Me? Scared?”_ she laughed aloud though she remained where she stood, spiked heels and all, mere inches away from him.

“Of what _this_ could be—of what _we_ could be—” his eyes narrowed. “Tell me I’m wrong—" as she fell uncharacteristically silent.

_Flashback, 10:29 am, November 1988, Ocean Hotel, Empty Conference Room, Copacabana, New South Wales, Australia_

Re-buttoning her blouse, she tossed Dexter his belt as he wound it around his muscular torso. Realizing her hair was probably as messy as a bird’s nest, she straightened what she could, winding her raven locks into a tightened bun using the ponytail holder she always had on hand. _Is this what all business conferences are like? Or just Dex?_ Figuring now was as good a time as any to make a sensual departure worthy of Jessica Rabbit, she turned, her figure silhouetted against the brightly-lit doorway. “You left without a note—”

A sudden realization dawned on him as he couldn’t help but chuckle. “Oh, is this what that’s about? I knew I was going to see you again—for dinner, tonight? Same place, same time?”

Biting her lip, she regarded his warm visage, his tantalizing features she had spent the past quarter-hour exploring, much to their mutual pleasure. “Wouldn’t miss it for the world.”


	31. Ain't No Mountain High Enough (1988)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Macy examines her spark-inducing proto-vaccine against Scythe. Dexter invites Marisol as another guest speaker, which leads to a promotion and a second dinner date.

31 Ain’t No Mountain High Enough (1988)

_“I wade in her droplets of mystery; my soul one with the wild charmed sea.” -Angie Weiland-Crosby_

_Flashback, 8 pm, Same Evening, November 1988, Ocean Bar Cantina, Copacabana, New South Wales, Australia_

She stared at the darkened horizon, illuminated by a bevy of scattered tiki torches and twinkling stringed lights overhead. _She should have known better._ Checking her watch again, she noticed the second hand inch ever-closer to 8:01. _Maybe she should leave, now, before the waiter arrived with refills and she made a series of regrettable decisions—this probably wasn’t even a date—ugh, why did she keep doing this to herself—self-flagellation at its finest—_

“Soley?”

She gave a start, as Dex sat next to her, kissing her gently on the cheek. “My apologies, I made a reservation for two over there,” pointing to a canvas canopied tent where a single sweetheart table sat perched with two chairs, lit candles, and a scattering of pink-apricot _Floribunda_ rose petals.

_This probably, definitely seemed like a date._

“W-what’s all this?” Marisol asked in wonderment, transfixed at the amorous display before her. “Y-you shouldn’t have—”

“I wanted to take you out on a proper date, but given time constraints, lectures, studies, I figured this was the most practicable option, not to mention the most scenic. You good with that?” She nodded mutely as he pulled her chair out for her to sit.

_Apparently, chivalry wasn’t dead._

_11 am, Next Day, Early November 1994, Biochemistry Laboratory_

Sample A: 0% agar/100% pumpkin jam—result: Scythe remnant consumed, mess-free

Sample B: 25% agar/75% pumpkin jam—result: ditto, slight smoldering, 1x1x1 cm across

Pumpkin jam, 1 tiny drop of agar essence…and feverfew.

Peering over her shoulder toward the doorway, she noticed Cora’s beady eyes on her as she continued inserting hybridized pumpkin-agar-feverfew (nicknamed “ _kinafew_ ”) into her gelatin capsules. _Soon,_ she thought to herself, jamming her pipette with the substance, _the predator will become prey,_ thinking of the hidden camera she’d stuck to a corner of the window shelf. _Soon, there will be answers._

Glancing at the first of her capsules, she noticed a sort of adhesion she hadn’t seen before, a certain biochemical dance taking place of the most unusual and entrancing sort. She grinned to herself. _Progress._

_Flashback, 8:20 pm, Same Evening, November 1988, Ocean Bar Cantina, Copacabana, New South Wales, Australia_

Apparently, it _was_ too good to be true. Dex hailed from Pennsylvania, and she from Hilltowne, Michigan, far too long of a distance to attempt twice-a-week dating once the conference was over. But for Australia, their paths might never have crossed at all. _Kismet, or a cosmic accident?_ She had no way of knowing; it was far too early to tell.

_Whatever._

In this moment, in New South Wales, she was a woman who simply wanted to love and be loved in return. And enjoy what good company she had, for however long or as short a time she had. Though a nagging thought remained.

“Why did they pick you?” she finally asked.

“Pick me?” his brow furrowed in confusion. “Oh, you mean the speaker’s bureau? They liked what my aunts did—”

“But they didn’t think to ask your aunts to speak?” He shook his head slowly. Marisol glanced at the ocean for a moment, then back at him. “I mean, I guess I shouldn’t be surprised. Their definition of “career diversity” is cis-gender males talking about their female-focused studies. Men explaining women. _Mansplaining._ ”

“Man… _splaining_?” Dex sounded genuinely perplexed. “That’s a new one—”

“Trust me, it’ll be used a lot. Someday,” she said with a knowing smile, and he knew better than to disagree with her.

“Are you…jealous?” he hesitated.

She paused, surprised at his bluntness. “ _Jealous_ isn’t quite the right word…more like, _righteous indignation._ There’s so many women with expertise in varied backgrounds—the speaker’s bureau cherry-picks its candidates without realizing it. It’s frustrating. I know more about _papel picado_ and white sage in _Dia de Muertos_ and Ethiopian Michiganian enclaves, but they’re not exactly clamoring at _my_ door—”

Dex mulled this over. “What if they did?”

She raised an eyebrow. “Just _what’s_ up your sleeve, Dexter Vaughn?”

He chuckled. “You’ll find out tomorrow. You’d best brush up on those white sage handbooks, ‘k?” He brushed a stray lock, tucking it behind her ear.

_Flashback, 8:50 pm, Same Evening, November 1988, Ocean Bar Cantina, Copacabana, New South Wales, Australia_

After enjoying their swordfish filets coupled with _Siegersdorf_ Riesling, their conversation took a turn to more personal matters. “Lone ranger?”

“A nickname from my work buddies. I’m a solitary creature. Not a fan of group projects—too many slackers—”

“I’d drive you nuts then,” Marisol laughed aloud, taking another sip of her wine. “I procrastinate like hell, and my best ideas come when I’m alone in the shower at 2 am—”

“I’m _sure_ they do,” Dex murmured with a vaguely roguish expression.

_4 pm, Same Day, Early November 1994, Biochemistry Laboratory_

Sample A: 0% agar/100% pumpkin jam—result: Scythe remnant consumed, mess-free

Sample B: 25% agar/75% pumpkin jam—result: ditto, slight smoldering, 1x1x1 cm across

Pumpkin jam, 1 tiny drop of agar essence…and feverfew.

She continued paying heed to the adhesion between the capsule and the hybridized sample. _Was that a cloud of…glitter? Sparks?_ Macy drew a sample onto a glass plate to examine under a nearby microscope.

_Flashback, 9 am, Next Morning, November 1988, Ocean Hotel, Conference Room, Copacabana, New South Wales, Australia_

Her mind flickered to the night before, when he’d walked her to her hotel door but refused himself entry. “Be prepared for tomorrow,” he’d said.

_Be prepared?_

She knew her herbal remedies inside and out, and perused her books, hastily scribbling notes every now and then onto a handful of index cards she largely committed to memory.

“…Part two of our seminar…” a familiar voice began, causing her to suck her breath in sharply. There was something oddly… _alluring…_ about that man—a combination of strength and sagacity the likes of which she’d never encountered before. “We would begin with our typical discussion, but I have another guest speaker I’d like to bring to the table—Dr. Marisol Sanchez, subject matter expert on herbal remedies, most notably feverfew and white sage in the Michigan area, with a unique Latina perspective on its uses in remembrance celebrations along with—” he paused, “— _papel picado_. Am I saying that right, _papel picado?_ ” His eyes entreated hers as she found herself nodding, her voice returning forthwith as she made her way to the podium, half-dazed, wondering if this was all a feminist’s fever dream.

“The floor is all yours, Dr. Sanchez,” as she approached the podium and began her speech.

_Flashback, 10 am, Same Day, November 1988, Ocean Hotel, Conference Room, Copacabana, New South Wales, Australia_

“In conclusion, remember these three tenets: white sage has strong cross-cultural ties (Ethiopia and Mexico alike), the four elements are earth, water, wind, and fire, and finally, never underestimate the healing power of marigolds, emblematic in Latin American and French culture,” as Marisol concluded her discussion to thunderous applause.

After intermission began, she began making her way out the door, but felt a tap on her shoulder. “Excuse me,” the older gentleman hesitated. “Dr. Sanchez, right?” She nodded. “I noticed you’re affiliated with Hilltowne University?”

“On a junior lecturer basis,” Marisol answered slowly.

“Wonderful! So, there’s an opening I feel you’d be qualified for—”

“What _sort_ of opening?” _Please let it not be another entry-level position, please…_

“Associate Chair of Women’s Studies. Well,” he stated, “I know it’s not herbal remedies, but with your charisma, unique perspective, not to mention educational background in healing and psychology—”

“That sounds like an _amazing_ opportunity!” she exclaimed. “I mean, that sounds _great—”_

He positively beamed. “Splendid—I’ll fax you the paperwork in a couple weeks and we’ll start the interview process from there. A formality. I’ll be in touch,” as he shook her hand, before departing.

_Oh my God. Did I just get promoted?_

“Soley, you ok?” she felt Dex’s arm upon her shoulder. “Sorry, I should’ve warned you—I didn’t get the go-ahead till crack of dawn—” as she threw her arms around his neck. “ _Oh—”_

She grinned as her lips met his, not caring who else saw, though by then most had already dispersed. “Thanks so much, Dex,” she whispered. “ _I owe you one_. Dinner, same place, but casual this time?”

“Anything for the woman of the hour,” he replied, his gaze never leaving hers.

_Flashback, 8:45 pm, Same Evening, November 1988, Barstools, Ocean Bar Cantina, Copacabana, New South Wales, Australia_

After finishing their Aussie burgers (lamb, pickled beets, ketchup, bacon, and lettuce), a familiar tune could be heard, “Ain’t No Mountain High Enough,” a duet by Marvin Gaye and Tammi Terrell. Marisol noticed Dex’s struggle to maintain eye contact, as she’d chosen to wear her highly revealing crimson halter top for the occasion, paired with cropped khakis that left little to the imagination; at the same time, she couldn’t help but eye his subtly protruding musculature from beneath his palm tree-printed polo shirt. _Oh my…_

_Remember the day I set you free/I told you you could always count on me darling…_

“Dance with me?” Jumping up from her seat, she offered her hand, which he took sans hesitation.

_From that day on, I made a vow…_

Soon enough, they found themselves swinging around on the flat covered-wood floor, more carefree than they had ever been in months, let alone years. A combination of ballroom styles flowed and intertwined with hints of freestyle as their bodies converged in the heat of the fiery lantern-lit evening.

_I’ll be there, when you want me/Some way, somehow…_

“ _Dexter Vaughn,”_ she whispered in his ear as he held her close, “ _I think I’m falling in love with you.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Ain't No Mountain High Enough" is a pop/soul song written by Nickolas Ashford and Valerie Simpson in 1966, first successful as a 1967 hit single recorded by Marvin Gaye and Tammi Terrell.


	32. Chasing Waterfalls (1988)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Macy contemplates an extra ingredient to the Scythe proto-vaccine. Dexter invites Marisol to a hiking date and they have “the talk.”

32 Chasing Waterfalls (1988)

_“Autumn was ripening, and the forest grew crisp. So deep my soul ventured, I returned with her scent.” -Angie Weiland-Crosby_

_Flashback, 8 am, Next Morning, November 1988, Ocean Hotel, Dexter’s Room, Copacabana, New South Wales, Australia_

Stirring, her eyes adjusted to unfamiliar surroundings—plush thousand-threadcount sheets and a navy bedspread that reminded her of the half-moon hour before twilight, steady and unwavering, much like its original inhabitant. Speaking of which—she shifted her frame, deliciously sore from several hours before, reaching—

_And a dark, melanin hand clasped her own._

_Dexter._

_Othello, to her Desdemona._

“Hi,” she murmured as he stroked her cheek.

“Hi yourself,” replied Dex smiling, as they kissed, throwing caution to the wind as they tumbled beneath the luxurious sheets once more.

_Flashback, 9 am, Same Day, November 1988, Ocean Hotel, Breakfast, Copacabana, New South Wales, Australia_

After returning to her room for a fresh change of clothes, she met Dex for breakfast, sitting across from him as he sliced into his pork sausage and hash browns. She glanced at her own plate—freshly-cut melon, scrambled eggs with a healthy dousing of ketchup, not to mention her cup of coffee, in contrast to his vaguely generic English breakfast tea. _What was English breakfast tea, anyways?_ she thought to herself. Certainly not a full and complete meal. _A misnomer, if ever there was one._

Since neither of them had a lecture to present (that they knew about), they had a considerable amount of freedom. For a day. Soon enough, they would find themselves back home, over ten hours’ driving distance away. Not that she’d picked up a free map from the front desk and checked. _Of course not…oh, who was she kidding…_

_How do you spend a day with one’s soulmate?_

She choked on her coffee. _Soulmate? I’ve only known him for—72 hours. This is crazy_ —as a coughing fit overwhelmed her. Dex reached over, patting her back, as he offered his tea. _Hm, not bad_ , she mused, pleasantly surprised by the bitter, sultry notes as she took a sip, followed by another shortly after.

Seconds passed, then minutes more. “So, um, Dex, what’s on the agenda today?”

“I thought we’d learn ‘alligator aromatherapy,’ someone named Morgana’s teaching it, redhead from the Azores, heard the gator hide’s kind of smelly—” as Marisol visibly winced. “Kidding!” he laughed. “Some hiking, maybe?”

“Oh thank God. Where?”

“I know the perfect place—meet me in the lobby in half an hour—and pack a bathing suit!”

_5 pm, Same Day, Early November 1994, Biochemistry Laboratory_

Sample A: 100% pumpkin jam with Sample B: 25% agar/75% pumpkin jam: pumpkin jam, 1 tiny drop of agar essence, and feverfew… _and?_

Macy sighed. The glittering cloud needed to dissipate fast if implemented, to avoid her and her sisters accidentally injuring themselves while fighting Scythe after taking said proto-vaccine. _Alligator hide to make the glitter vanish?_ Macy grimaced. _Ew, no. That would be a violation._

_I need something subtle and sweet._

Switching off the lights, she shut the door, heading back to Harry and a delicious dinner ( _roast beef au jus,_ his text read). It would be at least a day or two before she’d get enough hidden camera footage of Cora in the lab—if she was, indeed, the culprit of her disappearing biochemical supplies.

_Flashback, Noon, Same Day, November 1988, Kalanga Falls, New South Wales, Australia_

The sienna rocks beneath her feet provided warmth, akin to a simmering low-grade sauna as she shed her gym shorts and tank top, revealing her black string bikini. “Honestly, Dex,” she remarked, “if you wanted me naked you could’ve just said so—“

She turned around and noticed he’d vanished. _What the—?_

“Over here!” Hearing his voice, she realized he’d swam all the way to beneath the stories-high waterfall.

 _Two can play this game,_ she supposed slyly, before diving headlong into the crisp, cool water, gliding seamlessly through its waves to meet his form.

Moments later, she found themselves sitting side-by-side on a ledge within, their knees and toes receiving the incoming torrent. A blissful silence ensued but for the roar of waves, though her mind swirled with inward turmoil. _You’re alone near a waterfall with a man you barely met, who kissed you instead of replying ‘I love you’ back, and if anything happens nobody will hear you scream—_

 _Shut up!_ She sought to vanquish her innermost insecurities, which tended to pop up at the most inconvenient of times. _Dex is kind, gentle, sweet, exacting, handsome, and wouldn’t hurt a fly—_

“Soley?” Dex’s visage perched upon her shoulder as he combed her wavy hair through his fingers. “Earth to Soley?”

“I-I’m fine,” she stated. “Just wondering why you brought us here—” _brought me here, more like._

“To tell you something,” his voice echoed over the rush of water.

“Oh yeah?” Her hand clasped his, their feet continuing to meet the spraying stream. “What’s that?”

“ _You know_ —”

“No, Dex, I _don’t_ know—” _say the words,_ she willed silently. _If you don’t say the words, I won’t believe you—_

He swallowed hard. “Soley, I love you.”

_Flashback, 12:15 pm, Same Day, November 1988, Kalanga Falls, New South Wales, Australia_

“That wasn’t so hard, was it?” She attempted to speak in jest, though anxiety gnawed its way through her stomach.

“Well…that _and…_ the conference ends in two days—”

“I realize that, Dex—” _This is where he leaves me forever. Right?_ She hoped the waterfall would mask whatever tears flowed freely in the next ten minutes, as she willed herself to steel her heart once more.

“But—"

Marisol halted in her tracks. _There’s a ‘but’?_

“Soley, I want us. For there to be…an _us._ What do you think?”

“I think…” she reached out to stroke his hair, blinking hard, salt mixing with his sodden locks, “that I’m in _furious_ agreement—”

Dex commenced kissing her tears away, though his cheeks were moist with his own. “Soley, you’re crying…”

“I’m _not_ crying. _You’re_ crying—" as they laughed, unable to believe their luck. They had found the other, despite the odds, after each enduring enormous personal tragedy. She couldn’t wait to see who she would be, with him—and what they could be, _together_ , as a team. Despite whatever hardship lay ahead. For, she knew all too well, Othello and Desdemona’s tale ended in tragedy.

_She would love him in the only way she knew how—_

_For however long she had him._

_6:30 pm, Same Day, Early November 1994, Ambient Lounge_

Closing the door behind her, Macy muttered protection wards before stepping into the kitchenette area, where Harry was, sporting a “kiss the cook” apron, lightly splatted with _jus_. “I love you,” she whispered as she hugged him tightly from behind. “ _So much.”_

“I love you too,” he replied, as he drew Eskimo kisses from her smooth visage. “Long day, love?”

“ _You have no idea_ …”


	33. Without Darkness (1988)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Macy and Harry conduct a stakeout. Dexter writes the first of many love letters to Marisol, initiating an epistolary romance.

33 Without Darkness (1988)

_“Without darkness there would be no sleep; a time to nurture the dreams we keep.” -Angie Weiland-Crosby_

_Flashback, Noon, Same Day, November 1988, Kalanga Falls, New South Wales, Australia_

_She would love him in the only way she knew how—_

_For however long she had him._

_9 pm, Three Evenings Later, Early November 1994, Window Outside Biochemistry Laboratory_

Pulling her binoculars out of her satchel, she peered over at the 1970’s-style glass mere feet away, her mahogany curls tangled in the surrounding boxwood bush.

“See anything?” Harry called out behind her, between bites of Ranch-flavored crisps as Macy turned and glared daggers at him. “ _What?”_

“Shhh!” She brought a finger to her lips as he silenced himself once more. If everything went according to plan, assuming the glass was still cracked open a notch and her hidden camera was still there, _and_ her Polaroid camera worked, they would catch the culprit tonight. “ _This is a stakeout, Harry!”_

“But don’t stakeouts have a dubious pair sitting in a shady van, consuming snacks of questionable nutrition?” Harry asked innocently.

“ _You’re lucky you’re cute_ —” muttered Macy, her eyes remaining fixed upon the glass barrier. From the camera footage she’d managed to view from her phone, a cloud of darkness swept through the laboratory, causing test tubes to rattle in place, and petri dishes to hover dangerously over table ledges. Oddly enough, pausing the footage then replaying in slow motion, the items shifted to a less precarious position. _Like a well-meaning Air B &B guest placing teacups in the wine cabinet—wrong position, good intentions. _Despite the footage, neither of them could discover the source or nature of the cloud.

_It’s probably a bird._

_It must be Cora—right?_

The plan was to wait until the action began, then if activity occurred within, Harry would grab Macy and orb inside, where they would begin mystic combat. That was as far as her plan had gone.

_She pictured a crow, its beady eyes alert as it lit upon the window’s ledge, its beak nudging the surface open enough to slide through, before swooping down upon a certain workstation, pulling pumpkin jam jars and placing them on the next shelf, or petri dishes under the sink, next to the ammonia and vinegar._

_A delicious aura of suspense and intrigue enveloped her from within, as she imagined orbing in a theatrical fashion with Harry, confronting the older woman, who would gasp in surprise, startled at her vindictive attempts at sabotage being thwarted by the power couple. “Who are you really, Cora Callahan?” Macy saw herself saying as Harry placed the woman in a transparent penitentiary barrier._

_Instead of answering, the woman would cackle aloud, or smirk. “I’m not telling you anything. Why did you come here? You’re not welcome here—you’ll never be enough for him—”_

_As the fury within her threatened to explode, Macy’s own fingers shook as ropes emanated from her digits, binding the older woman in place, bifocals and all; she and Harry would stride out the laboratory door, film noir-style with matching detective hats and trench coats, their departing figures’ outstretched silhouettes expansive upon the austere linoleum flooring—_

“ _Macy_!” Harry whispered, shaking her awake. Blinking, she realized she fell asleep and began to speak, but he covered her mouth, pointing to the glass with his other hand as her mouth dropped open.

_That definitely wasn’t Cora._

_Some waiting game this turned out to be._

_Flashback, 11 pm, One Week Later, Late November 1988, Vera Manor, Hilltowne, Michigan_

If it weren’t for the single Polaroid picture Dex insisted a hotelier capture the day they parted ways, Marisol would’ve sworn their tryst had never happened.

 _“Parting is such sweet sorrow,”_ he’d murmured, their foreheads meeting as they kissed each other farewell at the airport, quoting Shakespeare’s “Romeo and Juliet.”

 _“That I shall say good night till it be morrow,”_ she replied, as they held their embrace for seconds, turning into minutes; a stewardess tapped her shoulder, alerting the pair they were blocking the hallway thoroughfare, causing them to reluctantly break apart, and eventually venture their separate ways.

As it stood, said Polaroid was affixed to the fridge with a heart-shaped magnet; arms around each other, their gazes were caught on camera, Dex’s confident grin to Marisol’s wavering, shadowed visage, belying unsettling hints of the anxieties and tribulations to follow. _Would he write? Will I ever see him again?_ This was, of course, also juxtaposed with recurrent images of the first and third child; but what of the second? An answer arrived in a dream days after, as she took note of the girl’s straight raven hair, her olive tone, and amusedly pouting, precocious visage. Oddly, she looked nothing like Dex. And who was the man holding her in his arms? _It wasn’t Dexter…_

Across from the Polaroid, on the kitchen table, was a thick parchment envelope—with _good_ letterpress cardstock—the _expensive_ 100 lb+ weighted type reserved for weddings or funerals. Having pulled a long work shift that had her dashing out the door at 7 am, returning just a couple of hours before, barely enough time to soak in the bath and fix herself a microwave chicken bake, she’d saved the best part of her day for last.

 _To: Dr. Marisol Sanchez,_ plus her address. Ripping the envelope open, she found pages of familiar handwriting. Closing her eyes for the barest of moments, she savored the comforting scent of cologne from its edges, imagining his voice narrating his ardor and adventures, for her eyes only.

\-------------------------------

_Dear Soley-my-sunshine,_

_By the time you receive this letter, a week’s passed by without the taste of your lips upon mine own, the touch of your fingers grazing my hand, the feel of your ankle intertwining with mine in seductive concupiscence, and I hunger for you all the ever-long while._

_The days pass and I’m thrown headlong into memories of us—Kalanga Waterfall, that time we danced to Marvin Gaye—is that our motto now, “ain’t no mountain high enough?” Because, as I stare out the plate glass window at work, enclosed, trapped, aching, yearning, waiting for another week before I venture through forest and highway to see you, I believe it is. Our love will move mountains. Perhaps it already has..._

_Our twice-a-month meetings that we will soon start don’t seem nearly enough for the pleasure of your cerebrally sensual company, and I ask that you be patient—it will be remedied within the year I hope. As Angie Weiland-Crosby once said, “you are my soul’s deepest mystery. You hold me close; yet so far.” Never in my wildest dreams did I imagine, stepping off the plane in New South Wales, that I would encounter such a striking, intellectual, beauteous creature as you, on the opposite end of the globe, far away from everything I had ever known, or thought to have known, the glow to my darkness, the sun to my moon, a star dazzling forthwith in the eternal celestial sky. Where oh where, have you been all my life, Soley-my-sunshine?_

_Someone wise once said that it was possible to have everything one’s heart desired, just not all at the very same time. Without darkness, one would fail to see the stars. Perhaps this is one of those scenarios. But I know, despite it all, I am, quite possibly, the luckiest mortal man on earth, for I have been known and loved by you._

_Until we meet again, my dear. Love you always and forevermore._

_Your Dex_


	34. Of Poetry and Polaroids (1988)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Macy and Harry continue their stakeout, finding an unexpected ally. Marisol recalls Dexter’s last visit and notices the number 3 a lot, plus a vision of baby Macy. Dexter writes another love letter.

34 Of Poetry and Polaroids (1988)

_“However vast the darkness, we must supply our own light.” -Stanley Kubrick_

_9:30 pm, Same Evening, Early November 1994, Window Outside Biochemistry Laboratory_

Her mouth dropped open.

_That definitely wasn’t Cora._

_Some waiting game this turned out to be._

Matching the camera footage she’d managed to view from her phone, the pair watched in rapt fascination as an identical miasmic cloud swept through the laboratory, causing test tubes to clink akin to windchimes, and petri dishes creak precariously atop table ledges. Scrambling to her feet, binoculars thumping against her chest, she made as though to orb in with Harry—

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you—” a familiar Ukrainian voice rang out, as they jumped, startled.

“ _Dima?”_ Macy gasped. “What the—” as she watched the cloud flicker for a second more, then vanish in the next instant.

“I’ll explain everything—follow me,” as they made their way to an adjoining park bench, partially obscured by a pushcart filled to the brim with what appeared to be chemistry sets and various mystical artifacts, buttons and switches. “Sit,” he motioned, and they did. After a few seconds more, he began speaking. “You’re not the only ones who want Scythe defeated.”

 _Wait—what?!_ Harry and Macy stared at him, then at each other. _Did you know? Me neither._

“So, uh, _Dima,_ what’s with the cloud?”

His hand reached over to stroke the protruding Erlenmeyer flask atop his pushcart, a worry stone of inordinate proportions, the labelled numbers punctuating its fragile surface, as he mulled over his choice of words. “Sentient _Tessera magicae_ macrophages.”

Harry bore a puzzled expression while Macy gasped aloud— _phagocytic cells_ —that ate harmful bacteria—and the Latin translation was… _”time-traveling magical cells…that eat Scythe?”_ she whispered as Dima nodded.

“Excellent deduction, Dr. Vaughn,” he answered, and Harry couldn’t help but feel a tiny thrill of pride at Macy’s quick-thinking intellect.

Finally, Harry spoke. “I—” he swallowed, “I mean— _we—_ are appreciative of your efforts—but— _er_ — _why?_ ”

Dima smiled. “Scythe’s fascinating from a biochemical and mystical perspective, as an occasional time traveler myself. For one, he’s immortal—” as Harry and Macy felt an immediate pit in the bottom of their stomachs.

 _“I-immortal?”_ stammered Macy, speaking for the pair. _Oh, and Dima’s a time traveler and smarter than his outward appearance suggested._ She made a mental note to never underestimate a scientist wearing Goth shirts and purple-tinted hair, even if he looked stoned out of his gourd nearly every day.

“Basically, Mother Nature balances the scales, and Scythe’s pestilence is an outward manifestation of corruption and societal ills—”

“Which should remedy itself in the upcoming results—” Harry interjected, in reference to tallies of a certain sort, but Dima shook his head.

“Does nothing against Scythe,” Dima responded. “Without my help, it could be another two years before normalcy returns. Are you willing to wait that long?” he threw them a piercing look.

_10 pm, Same Evening, Early November 1994, Window Outside Biochemistry Laboratory_

“But—” Macy finally spoke, “who’s funding your research?” Harry raised his eyebrow. _Love, who cares where the money’s coming from?_ She gave him a deadpan expression. _I’ve seen things. I know how this works—_

“Cora—”

“What?! _”_ she shrieked. The biochemistry lab was chronically underfunded, positively hemorrhaging funds. _Unless…_ Macy paused. “Who’s backing _her?_ ”

“Her trust fund, based on recent billings, and someone whose name begins with a C…what was it again?”

“Celeste?” posited Harry, hoping beyond hope it wasn’t the case, as Dima’s face lit up.

“Yup! Cora hosted her at the fundraiser gala. Weird tolerance, she would’ve spouted all our secrets if I hadn’t locked her in the closet to sober up..."

_Flashback, 11 pm, Three Weeks Later, December 1988, Vera Manor, Hilltowne, Michigan_

A second Polaroid was affixed to the fridge, this time depicting the couple at Hilltowne University’s Amateur Hour Talent Show, after Dex had surprised her with poetry written and dedicated _especially_ for her, amongst the hoots and cheers of the semi-inebriated crowd. _How did it go again?_

_Soley in the sunshine,_

_Dressed so feverfew fine,_

_Lips smooth like buttered wine—_

_Sing me a song my Soley dear…_

As she’d felt the bass notes’ tremolo beneath her crimson leather boots, thrumming in triplicate to the beat of her heart. Wherever she went with him, she noticed the number three—three identical leashed Dalmatian puppies in the park, three charm bracelets in her favorite boutique storefront window, three globes at the antique shop she frequented with Dex when he was in town. Marisol smiled at the memory of that past weekend as she fixed herself a cup of peppermint tea with the stainless steel teakettle Dex had bought for her so she wouldn’t have to keep microwaving every single cup of water, for eons at a time. Drawing the teacup to her lips, she closed her eyes and savored its scent, inhaling deeply. _It really was the little things._

She remembered making her own contribution to the Amateur Hour, recalling Dex’s mouth drop open the moment she began singing Lucinda Williams’ “Passionate Kisses,” its country-esque upbeat-yet-melancholy lyrics bringing sweet balm to her aching soul as she envisioned humming its lyrics while dancing in her kitchen, holding a little curly-haired girl bathed in light.

_“Is it too much to demand/I want a full house and a rock-'n'-roll band_

_Pens that won't run out of ink/And cool quiet and time to think…_

_Shouldn't I have all of this, and…Passionate kisses from you?”_

Applause echoed off the walls, cries of “encore!” but she only had eyes for Dex, as she returned to her seat next to him. Later that evening when they walked back to Vera Manor, he piped up, “no, and yes—” as he planted another kiss (one of _many_ that night) upon her lips.

“Clarify, please?”

“I mean, Soley, I’d like a full house too— _and_ passionate kisses from you.”

“Oh, _really_?” she all but purred, as his arm encircled her waist, pulling her closer.

“ _Yes,_ really, Dr. Sanchez. And, though I’m at risk of repeating myself far more than is decent, that voice of yours is _truly_ one-of-a-kind.” She loved it when he called her “doctor,” recalling how her toes curled upon hearing the phrase.

“Dex, so are you…” her voice trailed off as lips and tongue met in a sultry duet of their own. “So are _you…_ ”

Another thick parchment envelope—with _good_ letterpress cardstock—sat across the table, a follow-up from that evening’s… _delight_.

 _To: Dr. Marisol Sanchez_. Ripping the envelope open, she savored the comforting scent of cologne from its edges, imagining his voice, and his arms, hugging her form once more.

\-------------------------------

_Dear Soley-my-sunshine,_

_Did you know that sun is “soleil” in French and “sol” in Galican and Portuguese? You probably did, for you know a great deal of the world already and then some, but the beauty of language, and you, is ever-captivating to me. “Sol-“ also hearkens to “solitude,” that aura of being alone, apart from the goings-on of the cosmopolitan world. Not by oneself in pain, but in blissful contemplation. That’s how I choose to see things at least._

_You are always the sun to my moon, but those are the nuances I perceive, for you are a complex and elegant woman, and I am constantly in thrall of you…_

_Thank you for Amateur Hour, and the surprise of your sentimental tune. Its message was received and duly noted, of which I know you have no doubt. In your next letter, could you enclose a cassette tape of your voice? It would keep me company as I drive to and from work and go about my day, dreaming of your wavy raven hair, your entrancing smile, the warmth of your dimpled cheeks. Really, it would bring me such pleasure to have a part of you with me for as long as I shall live._

_When I hear your harmonious melodies, I feel as though you are never truly far._

_Until we meet again, my dear. Love you always and forevermore._

_Your Dex_


	35. A Marriage of Fernweh and Kinafew (1989)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Macy and Harry test the pumpkin spice agar feverfew "kinafew" vaccine against Scythe, experiencing odd truth serum effects of the lovelorn sort. Marisol recalls Dexter’s last visit; he drops by unexpectedly and proposes.

35 A Marriage of Fernweh and Kinafew (1989)

_“Maybe I’m just a fool/I still belong with you/Anywhere you, anywhere you are...” -Faouzia and John Legend, “Minefields” song_

_9:30 pm, One Week Later, Mid-November 1994, Ambient Lounge_

_Scythe is immortal._

_Dima has a cloud—a macrophage cloud._

_To knock Scythe into an alternate dimension—_

_An outward manifestation of corruption and societal ills._

Vaccine testing by candlelight wasn’t how Macy typically operated, but she knew she and Harry needed to press forward, as she popped a kinafew capsule in Harry’s mouth, notebook in hand, waiting for any and all potential side effects…

_Flashback, 11 pm, January 1989, Vera Manor, Hilltowne, Michigan_

Marisol tore open the cream-colored envelope, revealing the epistolary renderings within.

\-----------------------------

_Dear Soley-my-sunshine,_

_Listening to your cassette tape of “Passionate Kisses” stirs up a foment of cataclysmic ardor, for which I was nearly written up at work. You would’ve laughed—my supervisor entered, as I was humming along, altogether oblivious to his repeated knockings and “Dex, I need this on my desk in an hour!” until I turned around mid-head bop, waiting for the bass notes to drop, and found myself face-to-face with a stack of unreviewed audit papers._

_You turn heads, and drive me to distraction to no end, my dear…_

_I’ve thought about things more since our last visit. Vera Manor could use extra company. Patience—all I ask is patience—and soon, I will be yours, morning, noon, and night—instead of those fleeting hours, those transitory love-lorn liaisings, separated by forest and fernweh highways, with preternatural hours to go before I slumber, absorbing the ethereality of traveling past each glimmering, dabbled streetlight—to you. For I am homesick and hungering—for you and all that you are—the very nature and act of that which constitutes carnal cohabitation and connubial bliss. And whatever results, come what may. I know you want more. And I do as well. I don’t want to tell you more in case I disappoint, but there is a plan in place…and I intend to see it through._

_Until we meet again, my dear. Love you always and forevermore._

_Your Dex_

_10 pm, Same Evening, Mid-November 1994, Ambient Lounge_

“Harry? You notice anything?”

“Well—” Harry’s hand traced the outline of her melanin visage as they faced the frost-glass cubic window, pools of moonlight streaming through, alongside the speckles of nearby lamplight. “I notice you’re the most beautiful woman in the entire world, and I want to touch you _everywhere—_ and have _many_ children with _you—_ ” he all but growled, pulling her closer in one fell swoop.

“Uh—” Macy gasped, reaching out to stroke his chestnut hair. “ _I_ notice the kinafew capsule’s got a few side effects—" as she reached for her own capsule, satisfied that any such side effects were of a rather intriguing, and not-at-all dangerous, life-threatening nature. _I really must investigate this further,_ she thought to herself as she swallowed the dosage, her insides suddenly glowing with festive spices, hygge, and sensual fervor, her tongue loosening despite herself.

“ _Harry,”_ she murmured after a moment’s pause. “ _Marry me.”_

_Flashback, 7 pm, Mid-February 1989, Vera Manor, Hilltowne, Michigan_

She reread his latest letter, tears falling upon its surface before dabbing them away with tissue. _How was it possible to miss a mortal man so much?_

_You put a spell on me, Dex._

_And now, I’m yours—_

But who was she kidding? He lived over eleven hours away—and what did he mean by “be patient?” She checked her watch. It was almost time to fix herself a salad—chopped Romaine and vinaigrette—and maybe some store-bought Rotisserie chicken if she felt up to it. Dex wasn’t fond of her reliance on ready-made microwave dinners, even if low sodium, and urged her time and again toward self-care through cooking nutritious, satisfying meals, having sufficient amounts of sleep, and drinking more than the occasional glass of water. _Up to 60% of the human body is composed of water,_ she recalled him saying. _The more water you drink, the more your skin will glow, and the more you glow, well—_ his hand made its way through her wavy tresses, tracing the outline of her spine to its base and for that matter—

_I know what “connubial bliss” means. Matrimony. Someday. But how will this ever work? We live so far apart—_

As she heard a knock and the faint melody of—she paused, mid-stride. _Was that—“Ain’t No Mountain High Enough?”_

She threw open the front door, revealing none other than Dex— _her_ Dex, a boombox beside him belting out the lyrics, as he handed her a bouquet of deep crimson roses. “I got a job transfer to Hilltowne, and there’s a woman I know I’d like to room with—her name’s Soley, think she’d mind?”

Marisol grinned. “Not in the slightest.” The music faded; before she could allow herself to think through the implications—or kiss him— _hug_ him even—he knelt on one knee as he opened a tiny square box.

“Dr. Marisol Sanchez, or otherwise known as Soley-my-sunshine,” he began, his voice shaking slightly, “you bring joy to my life that I had scarcely known prior. You make my heart sing in ways I never knew possible, and I want nothing more than to spend the rest of my life discovering the celestial mystery of you.” Quoting John Keats, he continued. “’Three such days with you I could fill with more delight than fifty common years could ever contain.’ Our time may be limited, as your prophecy suggests, but I walk toward you with my eyes wide open, my arms craving your embrace, my ears your song, for a moment with you far surpasses a lifetime of not knowing the beauty of your existence. _Will you marry me_?” He paused. “ _Tomorrow?”_

Dropping the bouquet, she leapt toward him, her arms ‘round his neck, as their lips met, kissing furiously, headlong, uninhibited, neither worrying whether anyone saw, for in their universe, they were but two solitary comets in parallel orbit, without a care in the world. “ _Yes—”_ she whispered, continuing to kiss his visage, his cheeks, neck, shoulders, as they stumbled forward together past the threshold, slamming the door behind them, the boombox, now quiet, alone on the patio.

_Flashback, 8 am, Two Mornings Later, Mid-February 1989, Vera Manor, Hilltowne, Michigan_

Yesterday afternoon’s ceremony at the Justice of the Peace had been a quick one, rather to-the-point, with no witnesses save an off-duty officer named Choochi they’d convinced to show up as a gesture of goodwill. There were no living relations on either side, due to a combination of unspeakable tragedy, illness, and old age. But in the end, it didn’t matter. The most important thing being— _they were married._

Marisol turned her left hand over repeatedly, savoring by sight the shimmers of the diamond’s freckled reflection upon the adjoining wall, sunlight streaming through her bedroom—no, wait— _their_ bedroom.

“I like this connubial bliss,” she spoke aloud, as she felt a familiar form stroke her wavy tresses.

“ _Me too,”_ he murmured as she shivered delightedly.


	36. Don't Take My Sunshine Away (1992-1993)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Macy and Harry wake up from the kinafew vaccine, experiencing hangover-like effects. Marisol spends her last day with Dexter and little Macy, singing her a couple of her most favorite songs. Later, Marisol meets Ray through Choochi.
> 
> Note: contains brief mentions of Macy's traumatic birth origin; addresses trauma of parental separation from child

36 Don't Take My Sunshine Away (1992-1993)

_“On this stony island of despair, grant us the vision to paint a horizon; deep, lovely, and fair.” -Angie Weiland-Crosby_

_9:30 am, Next Morning, Mid-November 1994, Ambient Lounge_

_Scythe—immortal—macrophage cloud—alternate—dimension—_

Macy groaned, massaging her temple as the clock radio switched on, playing a song she’d never recalled hearing before, and yet seemed oddly, eerily familiar, the recording having been a remake by Mary Chapin Carpenter, whoever that was.

_“Shouldn’t I have all of this, and_

_Passionate kisses…from you?”_

“I apologize for anything untoward I said…under the influence…” Harry muttered, reaching for a pair of sunglasses that somehow materialized bedside, which he donned in a hurry.

“Don’t apologize—” she bit back a laugh before realizing she’d asked him to marry him. _Oh jeez._ “Kinafew concentration’s intense, it’s got…odd truth serum effects…I’ll work on it—” Macy replied hastily as she rose from their bed—though she felt his arm tug her back down.

“ _Truth serum effects,_ did you say?” Harry murmured, pulling her closer. “ _Do_ tell…”

_Flashback, 7 am, November 26, 1992, Vera Manor, Hilltowne, Michigan_

_“Is it too much to demand_

_I want a full house and a rock-‘n’-roll band…”_

Marisol whirled the squealing toddler within her arms to “Passionate Kisses,” Mary Chapin Carpenter’s upbeat voice bursting throughout the brightly-lit kitchen, coppery marigolds decorating the window ledge, the aroma of freshly-brewed dark roast coffee emanating forth in gentle steaming curlicues as Dexter watched from the entryway, realizing the soul-crushing ephemerality of it all, as he mentally recorded the infinitesimal details for his own eidetic memory.

 _Today was Macy’s last morning with Soley_. Their daughter turned a year older the next day, upon which the necromancer’s curse would be in full force. Although, one might argue, the curse had been there from the very beginning. It was, he knew, an impossible situation—a demented Sophie’s choice. Choose one’s marriage and the potential for future children, _many_ children even, a _houseful—_ or bring their daughter back to life and in the process, separate her from her mother and destroy a marriage— _what was a devoted husband to do?_

But the moment Soley saw the tiny still body, devoid of life, her agonized screams ripping, _tearing_ in two the very fabric of the underworld, he knew there was only one possible course of action.

_Bring her back._

_Bring her home._

_Flashback, 7 pm, November 26, 1992, Vera Manor, Hilltowne, Michigan_

Their bags were packed and loaded into Dex’s car. Her bottles, her rainbow-threaded baby blanket (or “ _binky_ ” as Macy called it), her alphabet magnets and books, her clothes, toys, and all of Dex’s earthly belongings; even though he traveled and lived lightly, Marisol could feel a vacant emptiness in their shared upstairs coat closet, the unfilling nature of it all, the creeping silence of what was soon to follow. _Is this what conscious decoupling was?_

“I can’t do this,” she murmured to herself, tears spilling upon her alabaster visage, wetting her blouse in miniscule but fast-spreading clouds, as she continued to hold Macy, _her_ Macy, within her shaking arms.

“You _must_ —” _Dex._

She sighed as he wiped her tears away, for perhaps the hundredth time in the past seventy-two hours. “I know.”

 _I have to be strong,_ he realized. _For the both of them._

“Let’s go sit outside on the porch swing, the three of us?” To his relief, Soley nodded, and the trio made their way thusly.

_Flashback, 7:15 pm, November 26, 1992, Porch Swing, Vera Manor, Hilltowne, Michigan_

The necromancer, Knansie, never mentioned anything about Macy not allowed in the public eye, but neither Marisol nor Dexter took their chances, fearful of anything happening to their miracle child. Marisol had taken an extended leave of absence from work (memory wipes were involved). _The less mortals knew, the better._

“Our love,” Dex murmured, “is too cataclysmic for this world—" as he kissed his Soley’s forehead while she rocked their daughter, who was fast falling asleep. “From my upbringing, folks would say the powers that be knew we could handle this, that it was the will of—”

“ _Bullshit—_ ”

 _Little ears—_ Dex motioned to Macy. _Small child, no profanity?_ as they smiled, just the tiniest bit, at the dark humor of the surreal situation. “ _Agreed._ All I can say is, we have each other, no matter how far, we have _who_ we could have ever need or want—just—differently imagined. It’s how I cope—reframing things. And we’re doing this—” he stopped, unable to continue.

“For Macy…” she answered softly.

“Yes, Soley,” his voice cracking. “ _We’re doing this for Macy_.”

Several more minutes passed as they continued to sway within the porch swing. Any pedestrian passing by would think them a quintessentially nuclear family—a devoted, loving father and mother, and their doted-upon child—rather than one marked by early grief, brief happiness, and punctuated by ensuing sorrow. “Can I have one more moment alone with her?” Marisol bit her lip, staring down at her toddler’s cherubic visage.

“Of course,” murmured Dex, as he re-entered the house to do one final check for luggage.

Marisol began to sing quietly. _“You are my sunshine, my only sunshine…”_ she ignored the stray tears pricking her eyelids, as she and her little girl swayed in the stillness of late autumn.

“ _You make me happy, when skies are grey…”_

_“You’ll never know dear, how much I love you…”_

She choked on the final lyrics of the first stanza, “ _Please…don’t take…my sunshine…away…”_

_Flashback, 7:23 pm, November 26, 1992, Behind Front Door, Vera Manor, Hilltowne, Michigan_

Head against the inner doorframe, Dexter took several deep breaths, attempting to gather himself together before walking outside and facing Soley once more.

_What was he doing, taking Macy away from her mother?_

But that was part of the agreement, and everything came with a cost.

 _Give me strength,_ he silently entreated the powers that be, wiping his eyes as he heard Soley’s lilting voice.

_Please don’t take my sunshine away._

_Flashback, 7:30 pm, November 26, 1992, Porch, Vera Manor, Hilltowne, Michigan_

“Ready?” Dex’s voice came out in a whisper as Marisol handed Macy to his beckoning arms.

“ _Never_ …”

“I know. _I know—”_

“Dex,” she recalled a certain box tucked among Macy’s toys. “There’s a couple of cassettes—I recorded songs for Macy—in case she misses my voice—the first—few—days…” she could barely utter the words, but he understood.

“Soley, you’ve given her _life_. She will never forget you. _And neither will I_.” He kissed her forehead, nuzzling her nose, and planted another on her lips—akin to a lover’s secret handshake.

Nearly enveloped in the darkness, he looked over his shoulder at her trembling form. “ _Until we meet again, my love_ —”

_Flashback, 11 am, March 1993, Vera Manor, Hilltowne, Michigan_

An impenetrable fog hung over her memory of that past amber-flecked autumn. She barely recalled walking back into Vera Manor after waving farewell that night, having promptly collapsed onto the entryway’s floor, her fall broken by cushioned carpet. Her subconscious melding with the distortions brought on by the horrors of her everyday reality, she dreamt fitfully, the various stanzas of “You Are My Sunshine” haunting her at every waking hour—

_“The other night dear, as I lay sleeping_

_I dreamed I held you in my arms_

_But when I awoke, dear, I was mistaken_

_So I hung my head and cried.”_

Her night terrors hadn’t gone unnoticed by neighbors, who called Choochi often enough that he knew her by name, by the time January rolled around. She knew her current manifestation of grief was unsustainable in the long-term; someone would see something eventually, and such accidental exposure of the magical world would cause trouble amongst the Elders.

Which is how Marisol found herself, one March morning, reaching for her phone, dialing a college friend she’d long fallen out of touch with, leaving a message after the beep.

“Charity, I need you to perform a memory wipe, as soon as you possibly can— _please—_ " she swallowed hard. “A terrible tragedy occurred, and—I—”

“ _Say no more—”_ a smooth voice responded at the other end. _Charity._

_Flashback, Noon, April 1993, Hilltowne Police Department, Hilltowne, Michigan_

Choochi looked up from his museum arson paperwork with Ray to find a wrapped basket of chocolate chip cookies. “For me?”

Marisol nodded. “Thanks for being kind—I was going through severe personal issues—”

“Say no more, we’ve all been there, _trust me_ —” as he unwrapped the stack and bit into a cookie. “ _Wow,_ this is _amazing!”_ The recipe rivaled even his wife’s, but he wasn’t about to admit that out loud, lest she find out.

Marisol smiled. “A token of gratitude,” she remarked, before making a hasty exit.

Ray gaped. “Who _was_ that?”

“Marisol Sanchez.” Choochi paused. “And I heard through the grapevine, she’s _definitely_ single…” He winked at his colleague.

_Flashback, 11 pm, May 1993, Vera Manor, Hilltowne, Michigan_

Marisol received another letter—was it her imagination, or was it slightly trimmer than usual?

Ripping the envelope open, she began to read.

_\-------------------_

_Dear Soley-my-sunshine,_

_Little Macy and I are continuing to settle in nicely in Philly. I’m not certain whether it’s our final location—but it’s home, for now._

_I appreciate your honesty and I’ve always sought to do the same. Your past letters have caused me worry, but I am glad you are healing—bit-by-bit—though the wounds will always be there, invisible but ever-present. I can only hope to be a temporary reprieve, an epistolary balm…_

_Which brings me to my next point…_

_It sounds like this Ray fellow has helped heal your heart whole. He’ll be there when I can’t. It’s ok to begin anew. This is difficult for me to say aloud let alone write, but you must move forward with your life. It’s what Macy and I would want for you. Neither of us want you mired in impenetrable grief for the rest of your life. Neither joy nor happiness nor love is finite._

_I wish all the best for you, and beyond._

_Until we meet again, my dear._

_This goes without saying, but, love you always and forevermore._

_Your Dex_


	37. Minefields of My Heart (2010)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In 1994, Harry takes a pre-dawn jaunt to Cora’s laboratory and confronts the woman directly. In 2010, Macy’s hands spit flames and Marisol pays a visit behind a linen curtain.

37 Minefields of My Heart (2010)

_“These minefields that I walk through/What I risk to be close to you/These minefields keeping me from you/What I risk to be close to you/Close to you…” –Faouzia and John Legend, “Minefields” song_

_Flashback, 11:30 pm, Mid-November 2010, Vera Manor, Hilltowne, Michigan_

Marisol surveyed the kitchen walls, now a nondescript ecru or eggshell… _or whatever they called it these days._ Never one for decorative detail, she had repainted the bright buttery daffodil-hued walls sixteen years before, forever sealing that glimmering bit of joy and happiness in the hidden crevices of her soul. The resulting appearance was austere, academic, and overall— _sensible_.

 _She had two other daughters to think of, after all._ Daughters who needed her after Ray long since absconded his fatherly duties. She sniffed, as she made to fix herself a cup of tea, reaching in the furthest corner of the cabinet for whatever few washed cups there were. _Men. Can’t live with them, can’t live without them—_

Her fingers brushed against a familiar piece, as she uttered the barest of gasps, drawing the mug forward. It wasn’t a particularly aesthetically-pleasing cup, but, _oh,_ the _memories…_ her mind’s eye hearkened back to that early Spring 1990 in the local ceramics studio, where she and Dex spent time creating a piece of handiwork to bring home. A trapezoidal cylindrical handled wonder, in mocha-cappuccino ombre, to signify the season in which their child would arrive home—later that autumn. However, she found herself adding nondescript grey at its bottom, noting the clouds surrounding her frequent dreams about this little one.

 _Were the clouds good or bad? Why was there a darkness about her? For she instinctively knew it would be a “her.”_ At the time, she chalked it up to hormones; she was in her eighth week at the time, sore blossoming chest and the faintest hint of swelling at her abdomen. Marisol touched _that spot_ —where she spent subsequent months with earbuds upon it, to introduce her child to music and various wonders of the world, sensing that time would not be a friend to either of them—

The phone rang, jolting her out of her poignant reverie. “ _Dex.”_ It wasn’t a question. She knew it was only a matter of time…

_9:30 am, Same Morning, Mid-November 1994, Ambient Lounge_

“Don’t apologize—” she bit back a laugh before realizing she’d asked him to marry him. _Oh jeez._ “Kinafew concentration’s intense, it’s got…odd truth serum effects…I’ll work on it—” Macy replied hastily as she rose from their bed—though she felt his arm tug her back down.

“ _Truth serum effects,_ did you say?” Harry murmured, pulling her closer. “ _Do_ tell…”

“Part of the ingredients were mixed at Cora’s lab, I’ve no clue how it could’ve gotten _this_ intense,” spoke Macy aloud. “It shouldn’t have been—unless the feverfew sat there for decades, getting stronger by the year—”

Suddenly, both of their phones buzzed, as the pair broke apart, diving for each.

_New administration. New beginning!! Time to celebrate!!!!!!!!!! Glass ceiling: OBLITERATED -Mel_

Mel had typed to both, liberal in her use of exclamation points, which was highly unusual for her. But then again, this was an unprecedented time of celebration in an era where there was so little to be festive about.

Another couple of buzzes ensued. _Maggie._

_I am in TEARS!!!!!!!!!!! EEEeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!!!!!! Coquitos for alllllllllllll -Mags_

Macy hurriedly texted Maggie back.

_Yay! 1. Passing on the coquitos. 2. Almost there re: vaccine. 3. I think I asked Harry to marry me. 4. I was not in the right mind…_

A _ping_ later and—

_OMFGGGGGGGG are you PREGNANT?????_

She rolled her eyes. _Why did everyone keep asking her that once she hit thirty? Sheesh._

  1. _How many drinks have you had? -Mace_



_A celebratory amount…………so how’d it happen? -Mags_

Maggie had included a shiny ring emoji and a “bride and groom” emoticon.

_We tested the vaccine, it had side effects (truth serum-ish) and it just…slipped out…-Mace_

She’d included a blushing emoticon. As in, blushing, _embarrassed._

_But it’s the truth so…when’s the save-the-date coming? -Mags_

_It’s not -Macy_

_????????? Why?????? -Mags_

_We’re…not there yet… -Macy_

_YET. -Mags_

Macy rolled her eyes, placing her phone on the floor beside the bed as she massaged her forehead for the third time that morning. Fifteen minutes passed by in what felt like seconds as the hubbub died down and the pair were left to reconcile with unspoken thoughts of possible future commitments…or lack thereof.

“The mix of truth serum effects…” Harry said slowly, “mean that you spoke what was in your heart, to a certain extent, no ifs, ands, or buts…meaning that you…” he paused, “want to marry _me_ …very soon?” His thumb and forefinger lifted Macy’s visage so that her downcast eyes met his. “ _Did you mean it?”_

She drew her breath in sharply. “ _Every word,”_ she all but whispered.

_3 am, Next Morning, Mid-November 1994, Ambient Lounge_

_The concentration of feverfew was a 12:1 ratio in a normal jar or vial. The amount of feverfew to induce truth serum effects was at least five times that amount—_ Harry’s eyes sprang open as Macy lay sleeping beside him.

_This was no accident._

“Where’re you going?” Macy murmured sleepily as he reached over to kiss her forehead and smooth her curls.

“Out for a walk. Be back shortly.”

“Mmmhmmmmmk…” she mumbled, before turning over, burying her face in her pillow as the corners of his mouth twitched into a smile. _My future wife…someday. One day…_ he mused, before orbing away to a certain biochemistry laboratory’s basement on the opposite end of Callahan College.

_3:08 am, Same Morning, Mid-November 1994, Basement, Biochemistry Laboratory_

Brushing his slacks, which emitted tiny sharp dust clouds, he examined his surroundings, finding himself in a basement storage closet whose locks had been unceremoniously ripped off their hinges, decades ago by the looks of it. Traversing the dank corridor, its walls smelling of sulfuric acid and worse, he strode upstairs toward Cora’s laboratory, which was experiencing some odd occurrences of its own.

_Flashback, Late Evening, Mid-November 2010, Vaughn Residence, Ogdensburg, New York_

This was supposed to be a weekend to remember, performing Ceelo at karaoke night downtown. Instead, she found herself trembling like a leaf before her quick-to-lecture father, after slinking home in the late evening hours.

“ _You’ve been drinking—you’re drunk—”_ he began, as she dissolved into tears.

“No!” she paused, looking up at him. “Dad, I’m not drunk! Someone tried to—” she stopped, unable to continue. _Even in her head, it didn’t make sense. First the punk slaps her ass, then she sideswipes him with—fire?_

He drew closer, examining her form in the darkened kitchen. _Something must’ve happened,_ he realized. _This wasn’t the Macy he knew. My baby._

“What happened?” he asked in a gentler voice this time. “Who did this—"

“Some guy…wouldn’t leave me alone at the bar,” she choked out. “I got mad a-and…f-flames…shot o-out…of my _hands…Daddy_ …what’s _wrong_ with me?” she whimpered, curling herself in a fetal position, her box braids spread blanket-like across the sloping curve of her shoulder, as Dexter gasped.

_It had begun._

Hands shaking, he reached for his phone a discreet distance away from Macy, dialing the one person who would have the answer to it all. Soley picked up, thank heavens; without so much as a hello, words burst from his lips of their own accord—“the thing we were expecting to happen…well… _it’s happened.”_

_3:10 am, Same Morning, Mid-November 1994, Biochemistry Laboratory_

A bit to the left, and the petri dish perhaps a trifle to the right, and two millimeters further—Cora stealthily moved through her territory, her gleaming black diamond crow ring sparkling in the moonlight as she made to strategize ever more, just _how_ to get under Dr. Macy Vaughn’s skin. Her daughter in Bali didn’t mean Macy could swoop in for Harry, even if he was a mere “toy-du-jour” of Charity herself. _Actions had consequences, no?_ Granted, Dr. Vaughn wasn’t a particularly conniving sort—so she’d go gentle on her. Nothing particularly lethal for the woman who couldn’t bring herself to hurt a fly.

_Just a bit of shifting. Petri dishes, the microscope, her workstation—_

_So she’d believe she was losing her mind._

_Piece by everloving piece, so help her—_

As the lights flickered on, sans warning. “Cora Callahan!”

Her lips flattened into a thin, straight line. “ _Why if it isn’t Harry Greenwood_.”

Standing in the doorway, he strode forward. “Making a mess in your own laboratory, how _very_ unbecoming.”

“It’s _my_ laboratory, and I can very well do whatever _I_ want—” she hissed.

“ _Not_ when it comes to Macy. You insinuated last week her experiment appeared—and I quote—‘drunk’—”

“ _What if I did?”_

“—And you moved her belongings, _and_ hid her vials under the sink—”

“Just a bit of fun—”

“And nearly _poisoned_ us—”

“Like mother, like daughter, the adage goes…”

Harry had a sudden realization. “ _You’re Charity’s mother—”_

“In the flesh,” as she grinned in a most chilling manner. “Though I hide that fact to avoid accusations of nepotism.”

“But Macy shouldn’t pay—”

“Oh, _shouldn’t_ she? For taking you away from _my_ Charity? Burying yourselves in _her_ love nest? Enjoying _her_ furniture? Eating off _her_ table? How dare you—” she finished off in a furious whisper.

Harry swallowed hard. “Cora, _listen to me._ Charity’s currently in Bali with a version of me—”

“Said _every_ man _ever—”_ she scoffed. “I knew you never loved her—”

He chose to ignore this pointed barb, continuing to speak. “The _1994_ version of me—I might add—who cares for your daughter _very much—_ " Even back then, if his memory served him right, he primarily operated as man candy, and nothing more. _No genuine love, no true kindness emanated from Charity’s crystalline veneer._ But he wouldn’t tell her mother that. “Cora,” deciding to play his cards at this very moment, “Dr. Macy Vaughn and I are from the future, and we came here as a temporary sanctuary to find a cure for Scythe, bringer of pestilence and sorrow.”

She fixed her beady eyes upon his earnest own. _He appeared to believe what he was saying._ It still sounded ludicrous though. “How do I know you’re telling the truth?” she questioned, with an air of thinly-veiled skepticism. “How do I know you’re not a cunning Casanova? An amoral Lothario?”

Harry fought the urge to roll his eyes. _Honestly, woman—who do you think I am?_ before having an epiphany of sorts. Digging into the pocket of his slacks, he drew out his cell phone, which he showed her, as she gasped in amazement.

“ _Wow—_ oh _my_ —this is…beyond state-of-the-art. T-this is…” she breathed.

“ _The future.”_

_Flashback, Late Evening, Mid-November 2010, Vaughn Residence, Ogdensburg, New York_

Dexter checked his phone. _I’m here, with a friend to help Macy. Grab a bedsheet, put it over the front window. -Soley_

He did precisely as he was told, grabbing a couple of soldered nails from the storage closet, hammering away until their rounded surfaces were nubs upon the wooden beams overhead. Then, he unlocked the window and felt the breath of the woman he’d left behind nearly a decade before, the result of which led to Maggie’s birth nine months after that. “ _I can’t begin to tell you—how much I’ve missed you—”_ his hand reaching, grabbing her own, as they held onto each other for the briefest of moments before breaking apart.

“Ready?” her voice uttered from behind the curtain.

_Flashback, Late Evening, Mid-November 2010, Vaughn Residence, Ogdensburg, New York_

“ _Ready.”_ Moments later, he turned toward Macy, who had just entered the living room, wiping her now-pink eyes on the edge of her shirt as she sat.

“Do _not_ look on the opposite side of this sheet,” he carefully instructed his daughter.

“Dad…you’re scaring me…”

He crouched so that he was at eye-level. “ _Promise me.”_

“I promise.” _What in the world…?_

A shimmer of light emanated from behind the curtain, as she heard an older female—a warm, soul-soothing voice. “ _Hello, Macy—"_

Her brow furrowed. “Do I know you?”

“No, sweetheart—but I’ve spent the last twenty years wishing that I did. Because, you see…" Marisol stroked the fabric barricade that separated them, “I’m your mother.”

 _Dad?_ She glanced over at Dexter. _Is this true?_ He made a barely perceptible nod.

Upon hearing those words, Macy sprang from the sofa toward the ghostly bedsheet nailed to the uppermost board— _why was there a barrier—even now?_ “MOM!” she screamed as Dexter grabbed her tightly—

“Macy, _listen to me—”_

“DON’T KEEP HER FROM ME!” Her piercing cries shook Marisol to the core, her fingers trembling as she wiped tears she couldn’t even recall shedding in the past several minutes.

“ _Baby._ You need to hear her out,” Dexter’s low voice soothed Macy, just that little bit, to keep her from yanking the barrier straightaway, her chest heaving as she shuddered, trying to catch her breath.

“I wish I had more time, Macy, but this barrier between us, it is a matter of _life and death—_ so _please—do not do that again,"_ she beseeched her firstborn, _her Macy._

Sorrow gave way to indignation. “I have needed you _so_ many times,” Macy voiced. “How could you get close and not even _look_ at me?”

“ _Ay,_ my baby, I’m so sorry, _I know_ ,” Marisol tucked a stray lock behind her ear, remembering, once upon a time, when it was Dex who would do the same, as she would melt at his very touch. _Once upon a time. Before Macy._ “But they’re the necromancer’s rules—”

Macy’s anger turned to confusion. _The what now?_ “The necroman— _that’s not a thing,”_ she murmured aloud, more to herself than anyone else. _No. No way._

“Before this night, you _probably_ didn’t think fire could come out of a young woman’s hands,” Marisol remarked, with the faintest hint of the wry sense of humor Dexter knew only too well, as he stood a respectful distance away from the two women, each of whom occupied a special place in his heart.

“Oh, my baby,” continued Marisol. “This world is _far_ more complicated than you know,” as Macy glanced at her father and back at the snowy linen separating her from the one woman she had yearned for as long as she could remember—her mother.

“So, th—w-what am I?” Macy managed to say, stumbling over her words, unable to fully comprehend the surrealism of it all.

“Many things,” Marisol replied as calmly as she could, “but right now, the _only_ thing that matters, is that you are my _daughter_ —” as she extended an outstretched hand through the curtain, which Macy quickly clasped in her own. “I love you, _so much.”_

Macy blinked rapidly. _How long had she craved those very words? How many years had she gone without celebrating a single holiday, birthday, Mother’s Day, without the woman standing barricaded before her? How long had she mourned for her, in those moments when her friends came to school wearing cute barrettes, and she had none, because Marisol wasn’t there to choose them, and clasp them lovingly in her mahogany curls? Those sleepovers, before she’d gone to boarding school, when mothers would wish the kids good-night, and she wished her mother could do the same—every night—hot tears flowing down her cheeks even then, knowing it wasn’t possible—that it would never be possible—_

“Macy,” the two women had reached a point of near-camaraderie, perhaps a silent unspoken, invisible truce of sorts, “I know the world can be a cruel and difficult place. But when you feel yourself start to lose your temper, you need to _breathe_. Because when women like you and I lash out, there is no second chance,” Marisol shook her head in emphasis, even though Macy wouldn’t have been able to see but a blurry shadow. “And I know it’s unfair…but…as more powerful women rise up in the world, things will change for the better. Do you understand?”

“I think so…” Macy answered, a tinge of hope evident in her voice; though knowing, _knowing_ she couldn’t see her mother, the words held its weight, comforting in a way nothing else could.

“And in the meantime, my sweet girl,” Marisol went on, “please, _please,_ clamp down on your emotions—the only way to keep the fire at bay—keep you safe—”

“Ok,” whispered Macy, her fingers still interlaced with Marisol’s for a second more, before disentangling themselves. “W-where are you going?”

“I promise our paths will cross again,” Marisol murmured. “But please know I will _always_ cherish this moment for the _rest_ of my life—”

“Mom?” Just then, a blinding white light burst forth from the opposite end of the bedsheet, so that it almost appeared as if it were broad daylight. _This—this wasn’t possible!_ “Mom?” Macy called out again. “ _Mom, what’s happening?”_ as she spotted a second shadow in the foreground.

 _“Be careful with her,”_ Marisol whispered to the shadowed figure, who made several paces toward the front door, entering the living room soon after.

Fingers outstretched, he made his way toward her, though she flinched. “ _Please,_ ” the man said in a lilting British accent. “I only mean to help—”

“W-will this help?” Macy asked cautiously as he nodded and sat himself closer to her.

“ _Allow me_ —”

“Wait—” his hands paused over her forehead. “What’s your name?” she asked.

He gave an enigmatic smile. _Beautiful_ and _discerning, this one._ Never in his decades of whitelighting had anyone deigned ask him his name. “Harry. My name’s Harry.”

“And this won’t hurt…?”

He shook his head. “It’ll help you lead the life you were always meant to lead. It will take away the pain, I assure you. May I?” as Macy hesitated, then finally nodded, allowing him to commence his memory wipe once more. He had the distinct feeling he would see her again, in another life perhaps, if he were fortunate enough, and maybe, he would recount this tale with her, assuming the Elders didn’t wipe his memory first.

_4 am, Same Morning, Mid-November 1994, Ambient Lounge_

“Harry?” Macy called out into the darkness as she heard a sudden _whoosh_ of rustling movement. Returning from his early morning jaunt, he was hers once more.

“I’m here, love.”

Half-asleep, she stifled a yawn as her eyes adjusted to the inky darkness, punctuated by hints of lamplight from outside. “Is-is it really you?”

He kissed her forehead, and their lips soon met. “Yes _,_ Macy _,_ of _course_ it is. And everything’s been taken care of.”

“You’re _so_ helpful…” Macy smiled, fading back into slumber, somnific snores, and all, as he gazed adoringly at her curvaceous form.

Harry chuckled lightly. “ _It’s in my nature_ ,” he whispered, without so much as a hint of irony.


	38. Natural Laws and a Sea of Stars (2018)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In 1994, Macy resigns from her job as she and Harry prepare to head back to 2020, the present, vaccine capsules, aerosols, and macrophage cloud at the ready, to defeat Scythe, bringer of pestilence and sorrow. In 2018, Marisol completes the Charmed One unification spell, meets her end at Charity's hand, and encounters Dexter in the afterlife.

38 Natural Laws and a Sea of Stars (2018)

_“Once a deep and powerful connection between two people has been made…there is no separating them. No measure of distance or duration of silence can prevent the outbreak of smiles and laughter or the strong desire to leap into each other’s arms when they come together once more.” –Beau Taplin_

_11 am, A Few Mornings Later, Late November 1994, Biochemistry Laboratory_

“Here.” Cora dropped a packet of what appeared to be pale marigold-yellow gel caps onto Macy’s workstation as the latter woman halted her Scythe analyses by microscope.

“Cora, what’s this?” she asked, puzzled, wondering if it was: a. a slow-but-steady means to drive herself and Harry insane, or b. something remotely helpful of the scientific sort. _Both?_ Macy picked the packet up gingerly, turning it forward and backward, half-expecting electromagnetic shock waves to emanate forth. _Or for the gel caps to have odd side effects. Like the mugwort a month ago that induced copious amounts of flatulence, resulting in fumigation of the ambient lounge. Or, most recently, the feverfew truth serum._

“Psyllium husk,” Cora replied brusquely. “Spongy gel cap, an effective receptacle for medication…or _vaccines of the Scythe sort,”_ she ended in a conspiratorial whisper, causing Macy to freeze.

She raised an eyebrow. “You’re being _nice_ to me, Cora. What’s in it for _you_?”

The older woman sniffed. “ _You’re_ not the problem,” as she strode away to supervise Dima’s work, which was currently boiling a miasmic grey. “Though if you destroy the lot, you owe me $500— _then_ it’ll become my problem.”

“But… _why?_ ” _Cora, why are you being so nice to me after trying to poison us?_ she wanted to ask. If, of course, that was the case. Or, Cora wanted them to suffer a bit—to endure discomfort—as karmic payment for Harry leaving her daughter in the future. _She was a complex, inscrutable woman, after all._

“ _You’re not the only one who wants a cure.”_

Macy inhaled sharply. _Scientific progress. An experiment-within-an-experiment. How meta. Of course!_ Cora had been testing substances on her and Harry while the pair had been refining their kinafew vaccine. Macy made a mental note to check the seven principles of research ethics, knowing that at least one— _informed consent_ —had been violated through and through.

_Flashback, Early Evening, July 20, 2018, Vera Manor, Hilltowne, Michigan_

Marisol stroked the raven tresses of the young women seated on either side of her on her bed. _Her daughters_. “Remember, you’re better together, your differences are your strengths, and nothing is stronger than your sisterhood. Nurture that.” Mel and Maggie nodded, trying hard not to roll their eyes as their mom repeated what they called the “sister speech." "And stay close to home tonight, ok?”

_Flashback, Evening, July 20, 2018, Vera Manor, Hilltowne, Michigan_

“I can’t believe they reinstated the bastard!” Mel heard her mother shriek into the phone as she rubbed her temple in frustration, along with a series of well-chosen expletives that seemed extreme, even for her own twenty-something ears.

“Mom?” Mel hesitantly ventured the moment Marisol slammed the phone down. “Is…is everything ok?”

Marisol took several deep breaths before turning to face her middle child. “ _Ay, mija,_ everything’s gone to shit.”

“Is it the professor?” Mel recalled, earlier that week, how she’d encountered Angela sobbing at the kitchen table, as Marisol nodded.

“Angela was supposed to testify in front of the board—” Marisol emitted a groan of frustrated anger. “ _The world we live in these days—I swear to—”_

Just then, Mel noticed Maggie sneaking out the front door, her outfit as perky and obnoxiously (to _her,_ at least) peppy as ever. “ _Where do you think you’re going?”_ Mel hissed moments later, barely out of Marisol’s earshot.

“Out.” Maggie reached for the door handle as Mel pulled her back, though was shaken off at the last possible second. “Stop treating me like a _child!_ I may live here, but I’m in _college_ —”

“Not for long, if mom finds out your grades—”

“It was _pre-_ Rush!” Maggie yelped. “If you do, I’ll tell her about someone dating a _nearly-_ married woman—”

“You wouldn’t _dare—”_

“Everything ok out there?” Marisol’s voice rang out.

“Everything’s fine!” the two exclaimed cheerily before turning back toward each other, still furious.

“I _need_ this—” hissed Maggie.

“ _You_ need better grades—” Mel retorted, as Maggie’s cheeks flushed.

“Unlike _some_ people, _I_ have a social life—my sorority _sisters_ depend on me—"

“Because you _pay_ them—”

“It’s called _dues—_ ” Maggie yanked the door open. “God, why do I even bother?” she exclaimed, before storming off into the indigo darkness to the welcome thrum of bubbliness and camaraderie. _Blood is thicker than water, but water keeps you hydrated,_ she groused to herself, as Mel slammed the door behind her.

_Noon, Two Days Later, Late November 1994, Outside Biochemistry Laboratory_

Fierce wind whipped a flurry of crimson leaves off threadbare trees as Macy huddled next to Harry for warmth, having left her jacket inside. “Did you get Mel’s message?” she asked as he nodded, showing her his phone, revealing the same chilling note.

_Scythe’s canvassing for Macy. He won’t leave until he finds her. Everyone is collateral damage._

“We need to leave _ASAP_ ,” breathed Macy.

“Within the week?” Harry made to clarify, as she concurred.

“Well—first, I need to write my resignation letter…” The kinafew capsules had a psyllium husk exterior, and between the magical purse exchanges and Maggie’s duplication charm, they had enough prophylaxis for pandemic stockpiling. The glamour potion was freshly brewed by the light of two full moons, and vats of aerosolized kinafew had been prepared by Mel in advance of what was to come. “…And get Dima’s cloud… _thingy—"_

 _Begone, Whumptober,_ Macy thought to herself. _Hello, Movember…_

_Flashback, Late Evening, July 20, 2018, Vera Manor, Hilltowne, Michigan_

Her eyes flew open as she heard a _swish_. She’d recognize the source anywhere.

“Marisol, _what are you doing?”_ A blond woman stood before her, clad in pristine pearly white.

“Fulfilling the prophecy—”

“I can’t let you—Marisol, _please—”_ her voice grew pleading as they eyed each other in the swirls of silhouette shadows, hearkening to phantom ghosts long since neglected. “ _Don’t make me—don’t make me do this—”_

_Evening, Same Week, Early December 1994, Outside Biochemistry Laboratory_

“Farewell, ambient lounge,” murmured Macy as she studied the myriad scientific tools and substances in her briefcase, along with the bags of clothing and other sundry items she and Harry had traveled with. The fridge was emptied of comestibles, the place dusted and cleaned, with virtually no semblance of their having lived there for the past months. _Which was as it should be, since Charity and her…boy toy…would return from Bali mere weeks later, according to Harry’s projected timeline._

She recounted the past 48 hours, which had passed by in a blur.

Before Cora arrived, Dima had slipped Macy an offshoot of his silvery macrophage cloud, housed within an airtight cylindrical steel container. _Use as directed,_ the labeling instructed; she slipped the item into her large suitcase-sized satchel.

An hour later, Macy found herself in Cora’s office, trying her hardest not to stare at several cat magnets, all of which displayed prominent pink buttholes. _That had to have been a gag gift from Dima_. _Him and his oddball sense of humor._

“I wish you could’ve stayed longer, to get to know you better,” Cora archly remarked over her pince-nez as Macy attempted to maintain a modicum of composure, biting the inside of her cheek to avoid laughing inappropriately.

 _Know you better, my foot,_ Macy mused to herself at the same time. _Truth serum shenanigans, more like._ “Scythe calls…”

“And who am I, to hold you back?” Cora completed the young woman’s sentence, a hint of an ironic smile dotting the edges of her aged visage. “ _Begone_ , and slay thy dragons—” as Macy swept out the door, _never to return_ —as her own countenance softened—

“You and…and _Harry…”_ Cora paused.

Macy halted in her tracks. _What now?_

“You…make a _fine_ couple,” Cora stated finally. Much as she wanted to resent the young woman for replacing _her_ Charity, and the high likelihood Charity would never marry Harry—never marry _period—_ never bear her grandchildren of her very own—she knew, deep down, this melanin-hued scientist was every bit the perfect match for Harry in looks, likeness, and intellectual prowess. “ _Take care of him,”_ she all but whispered from within her office.

 _We’re coming home tonight,_ Macy texted her sisters, after snapping herself out of the aforementioned memories.

_!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! -Mags_

_Plz don’t die. Better know what you’re doing -Mel_

_We won’t (hope not). We do. -Mace_

“Ready?” she detected a familiar hint of spice and cedar as she turned toward Harry.

“Ready _and_ wistful…” Macy remarked offhandedly as he tucked a curl behind her ear.

Harry bore an intrigued expression. “Don’t you miss your sisters?”

“Yes, but…Harry…” _How do I best put this?_ “The blissful solitude, the nostalgia…the… _alone time.”_

Knowing exactly what she meant, Harry smiled, planting a kiss upon her forehead. “I promise you, there will be _plenty_ of alone time for us _after_ Scythe. And…” he murmured in her ear, “ _millions_ more lifetimes with you.”

_Flashback, Late Evening, July 20, 2018, Vera Manor, Hilltowne, Michigan_

“There are THREE!” Marisol screamed into the abyss, as crows burst forth, encircling her from whence they perched outside the octagonal window, as Charity’s hand rose, almost of its own accord, tears flowing from her cheeks as she performed, with great reluctance, the utterly unspeakable—as she watched, vis-à-vis out-of-body experience, her dearest partner in crime, her collegiate chum, fly backwards, shattering antique glass, plummeting stories below, punctuated by a sickening heart-stopping _crack_ upon the pavement.

_Then stillness._

_She blinked, noticing at once that it no longer pained her to move her neck—to blink—the blanket of sorrow nearly three decades deep had vanished of its own accord—_

_Another turn of her mind’s eye caused piercing cries to fade away—_

_Mel?_

_Maggie?_

_As she found herself traversing a hilly path of countryside greenery, moorlands and farmland alike, separated by grey-worn cobblestone, melting into a trail in what she recognized to be New South Wales._

_Australia._

_Turning a corner in this ethereal fever dream of hers—for it was a fever dream, was it not? She spotted the Ocean Hotel in all its 1988 finery, at once admiring the sheer elegance of folding chronology and temporal strictures that unfurled and widened, much like a Great Barrier Reef oyster, expanding and closing at various infinitesimal, altogether unknowable, intervals._

_Behold, the sands of time._

_But—who will meet me—in this—forever?_

_As if to answer her question, her surroundings melded once more as she heard waves crashing along a sandbar, her feet, now bare, enveloped in pearlescent sands_. _She silently reviewed what she knew of this so-called shadow-free existence, a different temporal plane, a story evolving toward its infinite loops of consummate beginnings and ends. The ‘final destination,’ so to speak._

_Which had, apparently, landed her on an island, far, far away._

_She glanced ahead at the swaying feathery palm trees, the rich cerulean sky fading into cornflower tones with the barest hint of cirrus, the crisp cool ocean the hue of transparent, aquamarine glass hugging the never-ending horizon. Making her way to the secluded shoreline, she noticed a park swing juxtaposed with the beach—expanded, to accommodate two people, its grey-weathered wood intertwined with bleached corded weaves—_

_And a familiar figure atop it, staring off into the distance._

_“Dex?” she made her way forward as his head swiveled to take in the woman he had yearned to see for a great many years._

_“Soley?” whispered Dex. “Soley, is it really you?”_

_Blinking away tears, she nodded as they rushed forward in the next instant, embracing each other tightly. “I’ve missed you so much,” he murmured._

_“Missed you more,” she said with a wink, and he laughed aloud, hardly daring to believe his luck—but stopped short, realizing at once that this meant—his eyes met her own and she nodded, thinking of page 62 of Kate Atkinson’s novel “Transcription” in which the protagonist, Juliet Armstrong, jokingly claimed it was impossible for her and a certain Godfrey Toby to be in the same room at the same time._

_A “transgression of the natural laws,” Juliet called it, if she remembered correctly…_

_Knansie’s necromancer contract had met its close, the laws of nature reverting to entropy, and any such appearance of transgression dissolved along with it._

_The universe’s balance had been restored._

_Paid in full._

_“Is there room for one more?” Marisol gestured toward the rope swing as Dex led her atop, ever the gentleman. “I have so much to tell you…”_

_“Are they alright?” Dex finally asked, once Marisol filled him in as to her earthly adventures and those of her daughters. In the moments between which they had spoken, filled the silence—had two seconds—or two years passed by? “They’ve got quite a battle ahead of them…”_

_“They are now,” Marisol replied, kissing his neck as she leaned into his shoulder, breathing in the familiar scent of him that she had spent decades longing for. “They’ve got each other—”_

_“Their differences are their strengths—” began Dex._

_“And nothing’s stronger than their sisterhood,” Marisol completed the phrase._

_“Exactly.” Dex intertwined his fingers with Soley’s own. How he missed doing that sensual, sentimental act—had it really been a decade since the last time they’d held hands? But somehow, it no longer mattered. Not anymore._

_His Soley was back in the Azores—_

_His Soley was finally home._

_They regarded the horizon once more, envisioning the limitless infinities of their newfound bliss, as Dex recalled a Beau Taplin quote that went as follows:_

_“There are a few things in life so beautiful they hurt: swimming in the ocean while it rains, reading alone in empty libraries, the sea of stars that appear when you’re miles away…the things we do not know about the universe, and you.”_


	39. The Multiple Macys (2020)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Macy and Harry land back in 2020 and prepare to fight Scythe. This involves a certain glamour potion that transforms Mel and Maggie into identical Macys, meant to confuse the harbinger of pestilence and sorrow.

39 The Multiple Macys (2020)

_“The heart is the size of a fist because we were born to fight for what we love.” -Beau Taplin_

_Evening, Early December 1994, Ambient Lounge_

“Farewell, ambient lounge,” murmured Macy as she studied the myriad scientific tools and substances in her briefcase, along with the bags of clothing and other sundry items. Taking one last look around, she grasped Harry’s arm and off they were to 2020, her sisters, and home. _Vera Manor, at long last._

_6 pm, Same Evening, Early December 2020, Attic, Vera Manor_

Landing with a _thump_ atop the faded couch, she ducked for cover as the piles of luggage followed in their wake, loud enough to wake the dead—

_“MACYHARRYMACYHARRY!!!!!!!!!!”_

She barely turned around before finding herself and Harry pummeled by her two younger sisters. “ _A little air—please—”_ Macy gasped as Maggie and Mel released their grip.

_“Omigawd you’re BACK—”_

_“We missed you!”_

_“That glam potion’s ready—”_

_“The spray too—”_

Macy laughed as she caught her breath, gathering her sisters and Harry into a ( _softer,_ this time) group hug once more. “We’re _so_ glad to be home. We missed you two,” catching Harry’s eye as he smiled, squeezing her hand. _Thrice. I. Love. You._

_8 pm, Same Evening, Early December 2020, Kitchen, Vera Manor_

After Macy took a long bath and Harry set to work baking vinaigrette-marinated chicken (“I positively _insist!”_ ), the four sat down to dinner, reviewing their list of Scythe combat tools at hand, and the general order of which they would use them:

-Glamour potion ( _Maggie)_

-Kinafew vaccine capsules/prophylactics (psyllium husk) ( _Macy_ )

-Aerosolized kinafew (pumpkin spice jam, agar, feverfew compound) ( _Mel_ )

-Dima’s macrophage cloud (housed in steel cylinder) ( _Macy_ )

Harry’s brow furrowed. “What is it?” Macy asked gently, ignoring the bemused glances Mel and Maggie threw each other.

“ _My_ name’s not on anything—” he muttered petulantly as Macy patted his arm reassuringly.

“Don’t worry, you’re still indispensable. _I swear,”_ Macy continued. “ _Right?”_

“Oh, yeah, definitely, Harry!” Maggie piped up.

“You’re the manager of the operation,” added Mel. “In case we all end up permanently Macy—”

Harry’s face puckered. “I _beg_ your _pardon,_ permanently end up as _Macy?”_

Mel glared at Maggie. “You didn’t tell them?”

“I thought _you_ did!”

“Mags, that was _your_ job—"

“Tell us _what?”_ Macy interrupted them both with a pointed glare. _What on earth is going on?_

“Oh, _heh,_ ” Maggie began. “So, um, the glamour potion…it makes you dressy, like in a combat way…and…”

Macy arched an eyebrow. “ _And?”_

“It…turns the person who drinks it…into an identical Macy…I mean… _you,”_ Maggie ended in a near-whisper as Macy sucked her breath in sharply.

“To buy us time,” Mel added. “And we made enough for two—me and Maggie—but not Harry, since we gotta bait him to Scythe—” as Harry uttered a horrified gasp. “Just—Harry—hear me out—we decided not to turn him into a third Macy because he’d— _no offense—_ get distracted—”

Harry’s cheeks turned pink. “I am a Women’s Studies Chair! I would _not_ get distracted—” as a certain memory popped up of a nightclub scene, post-glamour potion, in which Macy had transformed, sporting a _most_ revealing ebony-hued suit jacket, her chest pressed firmly upwards, his breath growing labored, jaw slackened, his gaze transfixed at least several good inches below her expressive eyes. _At said chest._ “ _Oh._ I _do_ suppose you have a point… _”_ his voice trailed off as he glanced back at the trio.

_10 pm, Same Evening, Early December 2020, Front Entryway, Vera Manor_

Harry rubbed his eyes as all three sisters strode down the staircase, donned in various shades of combat-styled fashion. He guessed that the first Macy was, in fact, Maggie, based on the prodigious use of shockingly bright pink and purple, not to mention subtle uses of satin on her leggings. _Or was it jeggings?_ He could never tell with millennials these days.

“Maggie, you look lovely,” he stated in an older brother-like manner as she glowered a tiny bit.

 _“Harry,_ how’d you know it was me?” Maggie hadn’t expected to be found out this soon.

He smiled. “I’d know your color scheme _anywhere._ But lucky for us, I posit Scythe does _not_ —” as he noticed the next Macy walking down the stairs in all-black leather gear, and sturdy, high-laced boots.

“Her _hair’_ s amazing _,_ ” Maggie remarked, noticing her wavy tresses replaced by curly locks, tied in a large ponytail. “I gotta get her GRWM technique…”

“Mel, fit to fight, as always,” he grinned, as Mel put forth the surliest battle expression she could muster.

“How is she this _tall?_ ” Mel exclaimed, now bearing her older sister’s outer appearance. “Nearly hit my head going up the attic—"

_And then there was one…_

_Where was she?_

_Was she ok—_

He paused, noticing a figure in tight denim jeans and a rather revealing crimson camisole, as she traveled down the stairs, swiveling briefly to reveal a lacy backing, not to mention a sparkling cubic necklace that might or might not be a weapon in and of itself. _Oh my…_

 _“Macy,”_ he breathed life into the very word. “You look simply _ravishing_ —"

“Heh,” she laughed nervously. “Just wearing what I usually do. Plus, denim prevents biohazardous substances from wreaking immediate epidermal damage…I mean, _protects the skin_ …” she stopped, realizing she was beginning to ramble, but Harry didn’t care, found it endearing, _even,_ as Mel and Maggie scurried away to the kitchen, allowing the couple to have much-needed alone time prior to battle.

_10:30 pm, Same Evening, Early December 2020, Front Entryway, Vera Manor_

“ _I love you,_ ” he murmured in her ear as they held each other close.

“But I’m such a burden—everyone fighting my battles for me—”

“ _Not_ a burden,” Harry interrupted. “And we’re fighting _our_ battles _together._ For the good of _humanity._ You _must_ realize that—”

“I try,” she responded somewhat despondently. “I wonder if the fates led me here—to demonstrate life’s cosmic futility.” She spoke haltingly. “Is losing—is— _dying_ —my destiny?” Macy recalled the black amber prophecy months before. “I—I just…”

“More like _ferocity,_ love. _Not_ futility. And we _will_ fight, to ensure you’ll live to see another day. Because we love you.” He drew her visage closer until her lips brushed his, tenuously at first, then firmly so. “Because _I_ love you. _Amor vincit omnia._ Love conquers all—”

“And our differences are our strengths—” Macy murmured in response, a smile lining her lips despite her inward turmoil.

“ _And—_ we’re better together—” Maggie called out from the opposite end of the hallway, causing Harry and Macy to spring apart. “Oh, come _on—”_ she rolled her eyes. “We knew you two were an item, like, _eons_ ago…” as Harry and Macy’s visages turned a faint pink.

_Midnight, Same Evening, Early December 2020, Front Entryway, Vera Manor_

Mel reviewed the remaining list of to-do items:

-Aerosolized kinafew (pumpkin spice jam, agar, feverfew compound) ( _Mel_ )

-Dima’s macrophage cloud (housed in steel cylinder) ( _Macy_ )

They had all ingested kinafew vaccine capsules, the psyllium husk lining tasting of freshly-roasted chestnuts and, strangely enough, high-end manuka honey. Macy had tweaked the feverfew concentration since the last time she’d tested it on Harry and herself, with overpowering truth serum effects. Now, there was but a hint of momentary longing, a whiff of nostalgia that hung about its recipient.

“I _really_ miss Parker,” Maggie whimpered. “He _really_ looked hot in that sweater. And the kitten…and the _puppy_ …”

Harry coughed indelicately. “Er, Macy and I’ll be in the attic. Prepping the macrophage cloud and all.” He turned to Mel. “Will she—and _you_ —be ok?”

Mel nodded resolutely. “We’ll-we’ll be fine. I’ll keep an eye on her,” she answered, as Harry and Macy orbed upstairs with a slight _pop_.

_1 am, Early December 2020, Front Entryway, Vera Manor_

_Nico. Nico. Nico. Nico. Nico._ The name permeated her subconscious, a veritable _incantation,_ as her heavy-lidded eyes began to close despite themselves. Raven hair just a touch below pixie cut, inveigling her senses, causing her to lose any and all sense of propriety, _never mind her fiancée Greta—_

 _“Mel! Mel! Mel!”_ She smiled, imagining her warm touch, the stroke of her cheek, her gold police badge brushing up against—

“MEL!” Her eyes flew open, realizing three pairs of eyes were fixed warily upon her form.

“I’m _fine_ ,” she replied grumpily. “Just drifted off—”

“Speaking of which—” Harry glanced at all three ladies. “Everyone must take a _siesta_ if we want to face Scythe awake at 4 am.”

_4 am. The so-called “witching hour.”_

“Whatever.” Mel rose to a standing position and traipsed up the stairs, followed soon after by Maggie.

“It’s for your own good!” Harry called out, as two sets of doors slammed shut upstairs. Turning to Macy, he stroked her mahogany curls, breathing in her delicious scent. “ _You too.”_

“But _Harry,”_ she pouted. “I’m _fine_ —”

Harry shook his head. “We’ve returned from a transcontinental journey topped with two and a half decades. You sleep for an hour, and we’ll switch and I’ll nap till Scythe arrives, you rouse your sisters, gather the aerosols together, _et cetera_.”

“Ok,” she murmured then. “But you’re staying with _me—_ ” she motioned to the living room couch, inches away from the sturdy coffee table.

Harry chuckled. “ _As you wish.”_

_4 am, Early December 2020, Front Entryway, Vera Manor_

_Aerosols: check. Vaccine: taken. Cloud: attic. Glamours: three Macys._

Macy frowned. _Something was missing._ Mel and Maggie had aerosols on every floor. The vaccines were likely working its prophylactic magic, and their glamours were holding strong. Macy had spent the better part of the half hour teaching them to walk at her pace, talk in the same manner—hand gestures and all, and to—“ _stop touching my hair!”_ she shrieked for what seemed like the twentieth time in as many minutes.

“I can’t _help_ it,” Maggie sighed plaintively. “It’s so… _new._ And _cool.”_ A thought occurred to her. “And technically, it’s _my_ hair…so—”

“Can we _not_ talk about this right now—” Mel began, then paused. “I think I heard something—”

“My _hair_ —” Macy stated. “Stop. _Touching. My—”_

Mel held her hand up. “Guys, I’m _serious—”_ as the scratch of a decrepit fingernail could be heard, scraping upon the Vera Manor front door.

_A morbid pronouncement._

_Scythe._

“Come,” a haggard voice creaked from just outside. “ _Come and face me_ ,” he wheezed, “ _my pretty.”_

_4:01 am, Early December 2020, Front Entryway, Vera Manor_

“Everyone in their places!” Macy hissed as Mel dashed upstairs in the direction of the front-facing window.

“I’m _waiting…”_ Scythe continued, never missing a beat. “I want _you_ , Macy, Marcella Yesenia Vaughn, I want _you…”_ his voice sent chills up her spine, as she reached for the door handle, her hands shaking.

_We’re prepared to face him._

_Be brave._

_Be._

_Brave._

_4:04 am, Early December 2020, Front Entryway, Vera Manor_

Summoning all the courage she could muster, Macy flung open the door, shutting it behind her, halting Scythe in his tracks. “ _Looking for me, asshole?”_ she uttered in a deadly whisper, suppressing a gasp as she stared at the hooded figure, its talons an eerie iridescent snakeskin green.

“ _Kiss me,_ ” Scythe murmured, almost hypnotically, transforming into the very likeness of Harry himself, as she stepped forward, intrigued that this…this _odious creature…_ did not immediately try to overpower her. “ _Kiss me, and all your problems go away…”_

_I should do it, shouldn’t I? Rest easy and comfortable in blissful unawares…sway in his arms, succumb to his compelling dance, his luster, his obsequious sheen, drift away long into the night, forever and a day, nobody will miss an orphan, an orphan all alone—let Harry wipe your problems away—_

_NO! A second voice cried out._

_This isn’t Harry—the_ true _Harry—and you know it, the voice continued. (Perhaps it was her conscience? Her soul? Her inner voice?) Think of Mel and Maggie—your newfound sisters. Think of how devastated Harry would be. Macy’s mind suddenly flashed to a plain, unadorned pinewood box in the middle of the Seattle forest, devoid of bluebirds and squirrels she had grown accustomed to seeing. And Harry, prostrate upon her coffin, weeping and pounding its surface until he could move no more—_

Macy snapped back to reality. “NOW!” she cried, as Mel, at the upstairs window, took her sister’s cue to spray aerosolized kinafew upon Scythe, who writhed, its Harry-like visage crumpling almost immediately, temporarily disoriented as he roared in outrage. _This was supposed to be easy, my pretty—_

_4:20 am, Early December 2020, Front Porch, Vera Manor_

“You guys ok?” Maggie raced forward, her satin pink and purple blurred amongst the dimly-lit shadows.

“For now—” Macy leaned her hand against a pillar to catch her breath. “I could _feel_ him. In my _head,_ ” as she gave an involuntary shudder.

“Well, don’t just _stand_ there—” Mel spoke at last to her sisters. “Help me with this cloud… _thingy_ ,” she grunted as she took one end, her sisters the other, as they sought to unscrew the lid, to free the miasmic object within. “Macy—BEHIND YOU!”

Macy ducked as Scythe swung his fist, barely missing her head. Mel and Maggie dropped the steel cylinder, which clattered to the porch with an echoing _clang._ “If you want her, you’re gonna have to go through us!” Mel yelled, not caring whether any neighbors were awakened at this unseemly hour. _The homeowners association’s gonna have a field day. Whatever. Nothing we haven’t seen before._

Scythe paused, taking note of the three identical Macys before him—one with a crimson blouse, netted in the back, a second dressed in black head-to-toe leather, and a third in tight pants and hints of pink and pansy purple. “A _game?”_ he smirked evilly. “I do _so_ love a game of cat and mouse—” studying the trio, he leapt toward the Macy wearing purple and pink—overtly _feminine_ colors. _He preyed upon such subtle nuances of weakness_ , he mused, delving closer to her delicate form—

_4:24 am, Early December 2020, Front Porch, Vera Manor_

_THWACK!_ Scythe reeled backward, as the black leather-clad Macy (Mel), held the steel baseball bat-like cylinder.

“Good aim!” Macy breathed, as Mel gave a curt nod, wiping beads of Scythe… _sweat_ …off her dark leather pants.

“ _Ugh,_ ” Mel grimaced. “Thank God for the vaccine, we’d be toast by now, but still…” Macy silently concurred.

“Don’t put your fingers on your face—here, take some antibacterial solution—” Macy reached for her tiny pocket-sized vial, placing a few drops on her sister’s hand. Scythe was down for the count—for now—but would spring back to life in several more minutes. They couldn’t risk moving him due to his pathogenic nature and bringing him in the house meant lifelong use of disinfectant.

_Dima’s macrophage cloud._

_It was the only way._

_4:29 am, Early December 2020, Front Porch, Vera Manor_

Maggie held one end as Mel tugged on the other, Macy attempting telekinesis to ease the lid’s removal. _Stop being so damn stubborn,_ the oldest Charmed One thought to herself. _Open. Up—_ to their relief, the lid finally loosened, a subtle _pop_ followed by the emergence of a foggy grey cloud of miasmic smoke. Macy stared, transfixed for the briefest of seconds—

As Scythe crept toward her, realizing that _this_ was the true oldest Charmed One, mind movement and all, swinging, _leaping_ for her throat—“ _HARRY!”_ Mel and Maggie screamed into the abyss—

_Where the fuck was Harry?_

She felt her eyes close despite themselves, a plummeting sense of dread as a heady dizziness overtook her senses—

And came to the next second after, realizing that Scythe had been drop-tackled to the ground by an immediate burst of blindingly white light—

_Harry, is that you?_

_Oh my…_

Macy tried not to stare at his toned musculature reflecting upon the glimmering moonlight, his prime fighting form all-the-more-visible, as she grabbed more aerosols through the upstairs window she’d swiftly opened, using her sight to lead the spray cans to her and her sisters’ outstretched hands. Harry continued to wrestle the flailing creature, but threw her a look.

 _What is it?_ she stared back helplessly. _I can’t do anything—_

He motioned to his shirt pocket.

_Cut it._

_Wait—what?_ But Harry indicated the location again.

 _Ok. Breathe Macy, breathe,_ she told herself as she focused on the fibers of his threaded shirt, her eyes squinted shut in concentration before her pupils widened upon hearing a coarse _ripping_ noise, magenta-colored powder bursting forth in Scythe’s hooded face as the figure roared and groaned for several tense seconds, releasing its hold upon the Whitelighter, who scrambled to his feet, moving Scythe (with help from Maggie, Mel, and Macy) toward the macrophage cloud, which began to thrum with electrostatic activity. _Showtime._

“Everyone, STAND BACK!” Harry held his arm out protectively, as if to shield the Charmed Ones, the cloud swelling to thrice its normal size as it swallowed the reptilian monster whole, but not before—

_SPLASH!_

…Leaving behind an explosive trail of burnt, non-pathogenic slime, of which all four were covered, head-to-toe.

“ _Ick,”_ Maggie cringed. “Burnt pumpkin spice guts—” She glanced at Mel, who was equally drenched, and noticed that both their disguises had melted away, revealing their true forms. “My _hair_ ’s back!”

“I’m _fun-_ sized again!” exhaled Mel in momentary revelry, before they regarded the front door behind them.

“DIBS ON THE SHOWER!” Maggie shrieked as she threw open the door and made a mad dash for the upstairs shower, Mel giving chase, leaving Macy and Harry to clean up.

_4:50 am, Early December 2020, Kitchen, Vera Manor_

“It’s not every day you defeat a monster with fifteen packets of raspberry gelatin crammed into a shirt pocket—” Macy remarked offhandedly, brushing her fingers against Harry’s clammy chest.

Harry blushed. “It came to me after Mel texted Scythe was allergic to Jell-O. I figured we could use all the help we could get, even if it led to a temporary shortage at the grocery store—”

“Oh, so _that’s_ where you were? And here I thought you’d overslept,” Macy bit her lip, grinning all the while.

“Never underestimate the ingenuity of a century-old Whitelighter, love,” he purred in response.

“My knight in shining armor,” she mused, leaning over to kiss Harry wiping a stubborn bit of goo off his lightly-creased brow.

“My _sensually_ sticky queen,” he all but growled, as she felt her toes curl the tiniest bit. “Speaking of which—” he paused to listen to the second floor’s comings and goings. “It seems the shower is presently unoccupied. Would you care to join me?”

“Oh _Harry_ ,” she ran her hand through his dark chestnut hair. “I think you already know the answer to _that_ question.”


	40. Seasonal Solitude and Solicitude (2020-2021)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Macy and Harry get cozy in the kitchen, interrupt Maggie and Jordan’s FaceTime naughty poker shenanigans, and enjoy all that the Christmas holiday has to offer. Mel comes to terms with Hacy as a couple, and Harry starts searching for jewelry of the engagement sort…

40 Seasonal Solitude and Solicitude (2020-2021)

_“Some show love rarely and mostly in small quiet gestures; sharing an umbrella in the rain, leaving you the last slice of their pizza, throwing their arms around you when you are afraid. Love does not have to be flamboyant or loud to be present.” -Beau Taplin_

_The miasmic cloud thrummed noiselessly, emitting sparks from whence it stood, hovering between weeping willows, silhouetted against the cobalt sky. Tiny glow lights emanated forth, sprinkling the environs, creating the ethereal appearance of an abstract art piece, a veritable dreamscape—_

_But she knew better, observing the darkness underlying the cloud’s belly, its forbidding gloom pulsating, coagulating, its inner resentment fomenting until—_

_It was time—_

_Yet again—_

_To arise at the witching hour—_

_And make a grand entrance, as scenery melted once more to the familiar suburban house Macy had come to know and love._

_His serpentine scales shone in the moonlit darkness, his sharpened teeth grinning eerily, sending shivers down her back as he advanced menacingly toward her shaking form, before the gables and pillars of what she recognized to be Vera Manor, at 4 am precisely._

_“Nobody here to save you now,” Scythe hissed, as she found herself tripping backward, attempting to scale the stairs—as he immobilized her—and drew close—_

_“One day, my pretty—”_

_4 am, A Few Days Later, Early/Mid-December 2020, Macy’s Bedroom, Vera Manor_

Macy sprang up in bed, grasping at the soft linen sheets, before grazing the mattress side nearest her to check whether she wasn’t back at the ambient lounge, 1994 wood crate structure and all. She gave a start as she felt… _enveloped_ all of a sudden—

“Macy, love, it’s just a nightmare,” Harry cradled her in his arms. “It’s just a nightmare—” as she took several long, deep breaths, doing a silent review of the room, her quivering breath growing steadier, bit-by-bit.

_Large bed and elegant navy wallpaper. Check._

_Mirror, check._

_Harry…check._

“Scythe’s immortal.” It wasn’t a question. Macy had done her research, run gel electrophoresis, kept Scythe sample petri dishes, and tested the gelatin compounds besides.

Harry remined silent for several seconds then spoke. “Yes.”

“So he’ll come back—?” Harry studied her worried expression reflected in the moonlight.

“Love, we banished him to an alternate dimension. Using an enchanted one-way bacteria-targeting _macrophage_ cloud from a skilled Ukrainian scientist and suspected warlock. And _vaccines._ And _aerosols._ And _glamours_. It will be _quite_ a long while until he returns—”

“…And we’ll be ready for him when he does,” Macy answered quietly. “ _Right?”_ Harry brushed his lips against her forehead, followed by an Eskimo kiss.

“ _Right.”_

_Afternoon, One Week Later, Mid-December 2020, Local Township near Vera Manor_

“I haven’t had the ability to Christmas shop like I usually would,” Macy remarked apologetically as the pair crossed the street to the nearest holiday-themed storefront, Harry holding an umbrella over her moving form.

“Well, love, Amazon doesn’t exactly deliver to 1994 and even the enchanted purse has its limits—I _hardly_ feel that’s cause to feel guilty—”

Harry and Macy had spent the past several days post-Scythe vanquishing mostly sleeping, unpacking, and gathering their bearings in a world that had grown increasingly circumspect—judicious— _cautious—_ since they left. Masks were required going out-of-doors—anywhere, period, and typical holiday celebrations had gone the way of the dinosaurs, given the six-feet-apart mandate.

Social distancing was expected during these highly unusual times, for which Macy was grateful, as she’d become extremely jumpy every time she heard a knock on the door. The day before, she emitted a high-pitched scream at the tune of the doorbell, which turned out to be a cheery Swan, clad in a cherry red Santa hat and striped holiday elf gear, dropping off free samples of vegan free trade cocoa in two flavors—Australian white chocolate ginger and Aztec dark chocolate spice. Her mask was dotted with Aggretsuko characters in every which emotion, which made Mel and Maggie wonder what dark tales hid behind that effusive veneer.

Maggie neglected to mention Swan was so determined to deliver cocoa to _every_ employee’s house (aiming for a 100% success rate), that she’d gone ahead and temporarily disabled the invisibility shield, much to everyone else’s consternation (“Maggie, how _could_ you?” Mel sighed in exasperation at one point). Harry, Macy recalled of the cocoa incident, had been forced to perform a rapid memory wipe of Swan before she returned to Safe Space, to avoid her accidentally divulging their whereabouts to potential villains.

Macy’s mind fast-forwarded to the present, as she and Harry trod upon the cobblestones. _Look but don’t touch_ , she reminded herself. _Antibacterial solution, disinfectant wipes, wash your hands—_

“— _Besides,_ ” Harry continued, his arm in hers, “I have all I could ever want—”

“Oh?” Macy bore the faintest hint of a flirtatious smile, reflected in her eyes. “And what’s _that?_ ” She gasped as he whirled her around and dipped her low.

“You,” his gaze glistened with unshed tears as she squeezed his hand tightly, kissing him all the while, mask-to-face mask, not caring who saw. _Nobody would recognize them anyways, right?_

_4 pm, Christmas Eve 2020, Beside Base of Stairwell, Vera Manor_

“Remind me again why we’re doing _two_ Christmas trees this year?” groused Mel, who immobilized an errant glass piece threatening to fall four feet below. “We never did that, even with mom—”

Maggie threw her a look as she added a few ornaments of her own. “It’s to make up for all the Christmases Macy missed, _remember?”_ she whispered out of Macy and Harry’s earshot; the latter pair were decorating the other tree in the sunroom, nearest the kitchen. “And don’t stack the reds together, it looks weird,” she ended as Mel rolled her eyes and snatched one of the crimson spherical ornaments from its piney residence.

“I highly doubt Macy even cares, they’ve been practically glued to the hip since they arrived back—"

“You say that like it’s a bad thing—” interjected Maggie as Mel shook her head.

“I…I think they’re moving kind of fast, that’s all—” a hesitant Mel thought aloud.

“IMO, not fast _enough—”_ Maggie paused in her decorating to check her reflection in a glass ornament. _Perfect. That new lipstick potion worked wonders._ She turned toward Mel, another thought occurring to her. “Harry’s not Nico. Or _Jada_ —”

Mel flushed. “I never said he was!”

“Just—” Maggie stopped short, thinking of all she could say in this moment, and remembered again it was Christmas Eve, jollity and all, “—give him the benefit of the doubt, ok?” She touched her older sister’s arm, her expression softening; to her surprise, Mel did not flinch. “You’re not losing either of them, if that’s what you’re afraid of. You’re still her sister. You’re still his mentee. Love isn’t finite—”

“I know…” Mel’s voice trailed off as she glanced upward to check on the placement of golden stringed lights.

“And if you’re lonely,” Maggie’s lips twitched into a smile, “I’m sure we’ll get nieces and nephews to spoil sooner or later…” as she envisioned a girl, mocha-colored curls and demure British-esque smile, along with a younger boy and girl— _twins_ —one with wavy cropped hair, the other with crimson curls the color of fire…

_4:30 pm, Christmas Eve 2020, Beside Base of Stairwell, Vera Manor_

“How about now?” Mel checked the placement moments later— _red-green-red-green—alternating patterns aplenty._

“ _Better,”_ sniffed Maggie, who reached for a jug of foamy cream-colored beverage, pouring two shot glasses—one for her, the other for Mel, who could stand to loosen up a bit, _in her humble opinion_. “Coquito?”

_5:30 pm, Christmas Eve 2020, Sunroom, Vera Manor_

Sprigs of cheerful holly were interspersed with rotund silver and gold ornaments; Harry placed the finishing touches upon the stringed lights as Macy checked the uniformity of the ornament placement. After both were satisfied with their work, she placed the nine-pointed Ukrainian star atop the uppermost area of the tree, a gift from Dima by way of the purse, for having defeated Scythe _(for now,_ he’d added in his surprisingly elegant cursive).

_Nine star points—_

_One for each of the Charmed Ones, plus Harry, Dexter, Marisol, Dima, Cora, and Charity—_

_For having stopped Scythe’s reign of terror._

“Ready?” Harry bent down to plug the stringed lights in.

Macy nodded. “ _Ready,”_ as seconds later, the tree alit in a scintillating, shimmering glow, the light beams reflecting upon the silver and gold ornaments to create a…

“ _Amazing_ ,” she breathed as Harry stood near once more.

“Beautiful, innit?” He clasped her hand, _thrice. I. Love. You._ Touching her luscious mahogany curls, he stroked her visage, aligning their lips, bending forward to close the distance—

“Wow, that smells _amazing!”_ Mel called from just beyond the kitchen as the pair sprang apart, Macy self-consciously combing her fingers through her hair as Harry gave an exasperated exhale through his teeth. _Maybe Macy_ did _have a point about missing the ambient lounge—_

_5:40 pm, Christmas Eve 2020, Sunroom, Vera Manor_

“Baked gluten-free dairy-free lasagna, paired with fresh Mediterranean salad,” Harry said, trying his hardest not to heave the most pitiful of sighs, imagining the _tiniest_ of violins strumming in the distance. _Woe is me,_ he wryly mused to himself, _unable to get a moment alone with my partner—due to a bevy of well-meaning sisters—self-isolating under the same roof—_

“Sounds amazing, Harry,” Maggie sat at the kitchen table beside Mel and kicked her older sister’s foot.

“ _Ow!_ Maggie, what was _that_ for?” yelped Mel as Maggie motioned pointedly at Macy and Harry.

 _Boundaries,_ Maggie mouthed. _Personal space—_

As Mel raised an eyebrow. _Oh,_ boundaries? _Talk about pot calling kettle black—_

“Ladies, is something amiss?” Harry couldn’t help but notice the silent glaring competition between his two youngest charges as they straightened their posture.

“We’re _fine,_ Harry,” Maggie replied, rather sweetly. “We were just returning to our tree out there, _right_ Mel?” With random mutterings, Mel acquiesced and the two departed for the front entryway, leaving Macy and Harry alone again.

_7 pm, Christmas Eve 2020, Kitchen, Vera Manor_

“I know a dessert that’d go well with our Italian dinner earlier. _And_ after-dinner tea,” Macy remarked after a bit, as she finished helping Harry wash the dishes.

“Oh?” his mouth rounded in the most adorable way. “What’s that, love?”

“Candied orange dark chocolate-dipped biscotti. We had some marmalade leftover…” she alluded to the sweetened orange spread that she’d packed in her suitcase, traveling decades forward along with everything else, as Harry grinned.

“That sounds like a _splendid_ idea.”

_8 pm, Christmas Eve 2020, Kitchen, Vera Manor_

After inserting the biscotti in the oven the first time, then a _second_ time (after slicing)—biscotti required _crisping_ —the scent of holiday marmalade and flavorful baked goods filled the Vera Manor kitchen and beyond.

Stirring the tempered dark chocolate, Macy dipped her pinky along the glass edge for a taste, her lips crinkling into her tell-tale sign of approval as Harry hugged her from behind, causing her to dissolve into giggles. “Harry, I need to stir this—”

“ _I_ need a taste—” he murmured into her flowing curls as he licked the remaining chocolate off her finger. “Simply _divine…”_

Neither noticed Mel’s visage poking through the kitchen’s entryway.

 _They really_ are _a cute couple,_ she couldn’t help but admit to herself. _Definitely end-game._

_10 am, Christmas Day 2020, Sunroom, Vera Manor_

After flipping through various channels, Harry settled on the Hallmark Channel, for its sentimental and altogether lovely depictions of North American holiday traditions. For times were different this year. Perhaps a bit more somber, a tad more serious with health regulations in place (and understandably so), and the annual Christmas Day Parade in the big city had been cancelled.

_But Christmas itself was not cancelled, for it lived within their very hearts._

_The holiday spirit._

Jordan wasn’t able to drop by in person, as he was spending Christmas sequestered with his mother and elderly grandmother, both vulnerable to the pandemic due to age. Luckily for Maggie and Jordan, both had FaceTime and were able to wish each other a happy holiday. _Although,_ Harry puzzled to himself, _they were certainly taking their time about it._

_10:15 am, Christmas Day 2020, Outside Maggie’s Bedroom, Vera Manor_

“Maggie?” Harry knocked once, softly, but she failed to hear. Then he heard a giggle. Then another. _Oh, they must be talking of Christmas cheer—_ but then his visage reddened as he heard the words “show me yours—,” “min-steal,” “that shirt’s gotta go!” and, finally, “full house!”

_Oh._

“What is it, Harry?” he jumped as he felt a hand brush against his arm, then sighed in relief. _Macy._

“Er…” he coughed indelicately. “I do believe your youngest sister and Jordan are engaged in a holiday version of…” he paused, swallowing hard, staring upward toward a tiny dent in the ceiling before meeting her gaze.

“ _Of?”_

“ _Virtual strip poker,”_ he ended in a whisper, as Macy laughed aloud.

“That explains a lot,” she remarked, before banging on the closed door. “MAGGIE, presents! Stop playing strip poker and get downstairs!” as the pair heard a startled yelp followed by a heaving sigh as the door flung open.

“We love you!” Harry called out after Maggie’s departing form, as he and Macy orbed downstairs to the sunroom.

_10:40 am, Christmas Day 2020, Sunroom, Vera Manor_

As everyone began to open their presents, an inexplicably familiar tune, “Ain’t No Mountain High Enough” began to play from a nearby speaker. Harry’s brow furrowed. “That’s not a Christmas song,” he remarked.

Macy smiled. “It is now.” If she suspected correctly, the very same tune she’d listened to with Dexter those holidays ago had also been played at Christmas by Marisol, for Maggie and Mel as well. _A Vera-Vaughn tradition, full circle._

_4 pm, Christmas Day 2020, Sunroom, Vera Manor_

Presents had been opened, their wrappings discarded as the four reclined by the warmth of the fireplace amidst the pitter-patter of rain outside.

Earlier that day, Macy had gifted everyone cookies of different varieties (chocolate crinkle, chocolate chip, gingerbread, and cinnamon spice Snickerdoodle), as well as the latest newly-published tomes by Stacey Abrams for Mel, much to the middle sister’s delight. Maggie had received a French makeup advent calendar from her oldest sister and couldn’t wait to try it out.

Macy had received from Harry a large glowing nightlight sculpted in the shape of a moon, to place by her bedroom windowsill. “A token of our ambient lounge days,” he said simply, as she blinked several times in a row.

“Harry, I _love_ it—” she murmured, looking forward to later that evening. She paused. “Also, I have an… _erm_ … _gift_ for you, for your eyes _only_ ,” staring pointedly at Mel and Maggie, both of whom tactfully took their cues to retreat upstairs for the next half hour.

“For you,” Macy handed him what felt like a heavy boxed set of books. Unwrapping it, he discovered its titles—“The Joy of Cooking” coupled with “The Joy of S-x”—as his ears turned a deep crimson, which migrated downward toward the centermost vicinity of his chest, his eyes growing dark all of a sudden, causing her own heart to skip a beat.

Placing the heavy tomes atop an armchair, he followed Macy into a tucked away portion of the corridor, now filled with glittering fairy lights, and a newly-built miniature wall-mounted bookshelf of tiny Lonely Planet language books, a mini globe, and other small tchotchkes and such. Clearly the two youngest Charmed Ones had been industrious while the pair were away.

“Merry Christmas, Harry,” she purred as the song selection switched to a slow rendition of Mariah Carey’s “All I Want for Christmas,” as they swayed within each other’s arms, beginning to dance a rhythm of which only they knew and understood fully.

“So I take it you’ve let bygones be bygones?” he murmured after a bit, recalling Macy’s initial less-than-pleased reaction at the latter tome, hidden decades earlier in the desk, as Macy nodded.

“I can’t keep dwelling in the past. But I can certainly learn from it. And _apply_ it, Harry,” her visage brushing his own, as he held back the faintest hint of a gasp.

“ _Look—”_ she stopped suddenly, pointing upward. “Mistletoe.” He chuckled, stroking her curls and pulling her just that much closer.

“You put that there?” She shook her head.

“You?” _No._

“ _Maggie,”_ they exclaimed in unison, as they drew their visages closer and finally— _finally!—_ kissed.

_10 pm, Christmas Day 2020, Outside Macy’s Bedroom, Vera Manor_

“Goodnight, you two!” Mel exclaimed earlier, a bit too cheerfully, in Harry’s opinion, as he and Macy orbed upstairs just outside the oldest Charmed One’s bedroom. “Hope you enjoy the mistletoe!”

 _Enjoyed,_ Macy corrected the verb tense mentally. _We enjoyed it…_

As the pair came face-to-face with a bushel tacked up atop Macy’s bedroom door, their pale emerald-pearlized berries prominently displayed— _not to mention—_

 _“Are those—”_ she breathed, as numerous wrapped foil packets sprung forth, cascading outward.

“It appears so, _Dr. Vaughn_ ,” he murmured with a telltale glint in his eye, causing her to feel all manner of _tingly_ and _delighted_ within.

_And the middle sister…approves._

“ _Thanks, Mel,_ ” Macy whispered as she bit her lip, before yanking the packets down entirely, her lips meeting Harry’s, slamming the door behind them as the true celebrations began within…

_Epilogue: Marcella Yesenia, or Macy, My Love_

_“Everyone you meet has a part to play in your story. And while some may take a chapter, others a paragraph, and most will be no more than scribbled notes in the margins, someday, you’ll meet someone who will become so integral to your life, you’ll put their name in the title.” -Beau Taplin_

_11:30 pm, New Year’s Eve 2020, Living Room, Vera Manor_

“Who wants coquitos?” Maggie called out as all four sat in front of the TV to watch the ball drop.

“I’ll take two,” replied Mel. “I can’t _wait_ for 2020 to be over.”

“I’ll toast to _that_ ,” added Harry, his arm around Macy’s shoulder, an implicit acknowledgement of their blossoming romantic relationship.

“Not to mention…” Macy paused. “I hear a TV show about witches is coming back…January 24th? Now _that’s_ something I gotta see—”

Maggie grinned. “I heard the cast and crew are _amazing._ And they feature glamours too,” she stated, thinking of the promotional material displaying glitter and shimmering holiday décor. “ _Super_ stoked!”

_1 am, New Year’s Day 2021, Living Room, Vera Manor_

After the Charmed Ones retired to their respective bedrooms in a semi-tipsy daze, Harry remained behind, shielding his phone from view, perusing JamesAllen.com for an engagement ring ( _conflict-free lab-grown diamond or moissanite?_ ) to adorn the left hand of a certain beautiful, sweet, altogether intellectually-stimulating witch—who would someday, _maybe,_ quite _possibly_ —be the mother of his future children. _Their_ children. Above all else, he was determined to begin 2021 on a sparkly, exceptionally high note.

For the future was theirs for the taking, dreamers and schemers alike…as he drifted off to sleep mere moments later, having orbed beside his beloved, heady visions of tropics inveigling his senses once more…

-THE END-


End file.
